Faces in Time (16 page)

She follows her sister, a slightly older bird whose feathers are not as bright and whose form is not as rigid, yet she still resembles her flashier sibling in heels.

The heeled one tries not to touch anything as they make their way toward the liquid trough inside the fence of shoulders, pulling her head back to avoid a passerby from accidentally pressing on her shiny hazel hair.

Her fingers occasionally gently tap someone blocking her path. The reaction is invariable: both male hands move up to his shoulders, one holding a bottle with a thumb and two fingers, and a bawdy smile creeps over his face as her colorful shape walks closely past his lower body. It’s a raunchy invitation, a lascivious gesture that is permitted under the excuse of manners with his surrendered yet imagining hands at his shoulders.

She knows enough to know the movement and the appraising thoughts behind it, and despite the mild flattery involved, she knows that no one who behaves in such a way is what she’s looking for. Not anymore. She also knows that gesture will never be reserved for just one woman either.

As they near the bar, Lucky smiles but says, “Here comes the fashion parade.”

His wife’s eyes narrow, and her lips push together tightly as she studies his reaction to her arrival. Her current expression is her standard method of bracing herself for his opening line. It’s sheltered her from much, hardening her in the process. But on occasions when he had no intention of mocking her, it’s been a false accuser that offends him and brings on the snarky comments from which she was trying to protect herself.

As Lucky touches her elbow with his right hand, she bites her lip and her toes squirm in her worn, old cowboy boots that are mostly covered by her jeans. Her eyes look down, away from her styled hair that hangs slightly in her face. She sees her sister’s blue heels not far away. Although she feels trepid about what’s going to happen above, she feels sad about the difference in the shoes. Not jealousy, but a hurt that echoes in her empty cavern of confidence.

“Chaz, this is my wife Cindy, and next to her is my sister-in-law, Janet Shrew.”

Cindy stops biting her lip and looks up, but her toes are still tense. Lucky leans in and kisses her cheek. Toes relax, and she smiles a blushed smile.

Extending a curved hand and a flash of white teeth that are mostly straight toward Chester, Janet says, “Shrew was my married name; I’m divorced.”

“Okay,” responds Chester, catching his awkwardness, “nice to meet you.”

Cindy says much louder than her sister’s speech, “So, where do you boys know each other from?”

Monotone, Lucky explains, “We met in jail when I got arrested for that bar fight at Malcolm’s bachelor party.”

Both women cringe at that sentence: Cindy at the word jail, and Janet at Malcolm. Lucky returns Cindy’s angered stare for about seven seconds.

Chester
is relieved that neither of the women are looking at him.

“For God’s sakes, Cindy, we just met at the bar. We’ve been talking during the pregame show.”

“Lucky him,” she says, not letting on how grateful she feels that his original explanation is not true.

Now, Lucky’s stare resembles the bitten-lip lok Cindy had when she first approached.

Breaking the exchange, Janet asks, “So, Chaz, what do you do?”

Having planned on keeping to himself for most of this gambling expedition, he did not plan any backstory for himself, which is something he would have certainly done for any character with dialog in one of his scripts. He was always known for overwriting material that could never be used in the show. Sometimes it would be outrageous jokes that would never air but would entertain the other writers in the room.

He feels odd having not put nearly as much thought into the character that he’s playing at the moment, for it would be unwise to act as himself, Chester Fuze, who has traveled here from the future or even Chester Fuze of the present, TV writer and moderate social leper.

“I’m a technical writer. Pretty boring stuff.”

Her brow crinkles beneath her soft brown hair, “What exactly does a technical writer do?”

“Basically we write instruction manuals, how-to guides, but a lot of it is taking laboratory findings and data and putting it into sentences and terms that other people can understand.”

Seeing that she hasn’t entirely figured out how his job may be useful, he continues, “We take what the scientists find in the lab, and we phrase it in ways that the people who are paying for the experiments—the CEOs, the shareholders, the owners can understand. Scientists have a hard time explaining their discoveries in simple terms, especially in terms of dollars and cents, which is really all the bigwigs care about anyway.”

She nods her head.

“And, the instructions are the same thing. Someone has to take what the engineers or designers say and put it in terms that the average person can understand. It’s kind of translating science talk into standard English.”

“Oh,” she says, her face looking a bit more unburdened.

Lucky says loudly, “See, Cindy, Chaz’s a smart guy, and he bet on the game today.”

Cindy pulls away from his hand on her elbow and stares at him intensely, “Lucky, did you bet on this game today? Is that why you came here while we were still getting ready?”

Holding both of his hands up, one still clching a beer, as if he’s a defendant on trial swearing on his bottle to tell the truth, “So help me, wife of mine, I have not stepped one foot into that room next door.”

“Manny hasn’t come out here to get your bet either?”

“Does Manny ever come out of that room? I’ve never even seen him come out to piss.”

She stares at him, her eyes unrelenting.

“No, I haven’t seen Manny out here; I have
not
talked to him at all today, and I didn’t give Manny any money either.”

Her head nods, and the intensity subsides.

“You need to relax, woman,” he adds, accenting the last word by following it with a quick swig from his bottle.

“I’ll relax when we’re on vacation this year. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

Lucky takes another sip of his drink. The crowd makes a loud noise. He instinctively looks to the television, and the other three follow his movement.

Washington is running the ball past the 25 yard line—a missed tackle; past the 30—breaks through 2 more tackles; the 35—blocks clear his way; the 40—a fast hip movement dodges hands that barely slide over his pivoting waist; the 45—clear sailing; the 50—imposing defenders sprint, driving him toward the out of bounds line; the 47—the kicker finally pushes the kickoff returner out of bounds.

With a face like someone has insulted his manhood, Lucky looks to Cindy, “See what you made me do—made me miss the damn kick-off. All I got to see was Washington running all over us. Always nagging me—see what it gets me?”

Chester
leans in close, “It’s a long game, Lucky. Lots of time for things to change. Trust me.”

A few grumpy moments later, Washington connects with a pass on the premiere offensive play for a first down in the initial three seconds of the game. Lucky is so beside himself he won’t look at any of them or anything else but the screen on which he gazes with a hot, furrowed brow and a gnarled mouth.

Janet and Chester exchange nervous smiles in an attempt to freshen the scent of the rotting tension.

>
The next play is a handoff to the running back for a gain of nine. The second offensive play of the game is one yard away from being the second first down, and there has been no pressure on the quarterback at all.

However, the pressure throbs at the base of Lucky’s neck. Chester feels no tension about the game, but he’s concerned that his betting partner might lose his temper before the contest improves. The bottle in Lucky’s strained right hand looks as though it could burst from his squeezing.

The third play, the quarterback jogs back a few steps and hands the ball off again. Washington’s running back takes three steps and is confronted by a lineman who has broken through their defense. While running toward the sidelines looking for an opening, the running back turns away from his meaty adversary, keeping the ball away from his outstretched hands. The running back doesn’t see the other lineman coming at him from the opposite direction. The ball is stripped from him by two giant paws, and the home team’s lineman takes off toward the end zone, running in the same fashion as an excited three-year-old.

Choppy, uneven movements propel him down the open field, invading Washington territory, nothing between him and six points but an open sea of green and a voice in his head saying that he’s too slow and someone will catch him. He sees his team’s colors on both sides just behind him.

He can hear a collision on his right. His heart races faster; his feet smack the ground harder. His vision begins to bounce as his breaths come harder and less recuperative. He can see it like a seaman can see the shore after crossing a tempestuous ocean. The end zone even looks to be softer than all the turf that he’s traversed so far.

He hears one more collision, which is his other teammate falling down from exhaustion beside him.

He’s all alone.

His chest betrays him as it convulses, straining for air and commanding an end to his unusual run. He falls forward; he can see the goal. He outstretches his heavy arms as he crashes to the ground. His forearms hit the grass followed by his knees, and the ball is completely across the white end zone line.

As soon as he can breathe, he smiles inside his helmet. He soon feels hands slapping his back with enough force to sting, but he cares not. With their unsolicited help, he gets to his feet, does a strange dance involving swiveling knees, and the crowd cheers. He throws the ball into the screaming mass of people, attempts a cartwheel, and falls over halfway through. He’ll be fined for throwing the ball, but he doesn’t care. He knows well that this may never happen again, especially not against the best team in the league.

As the playr’s teammates yank him up from his crashed cartwheel on the television screen, Chester’s attention is diverted by Lucky hugging him sideways, with the time traveler’s shoulder pressed into the man’s beefy but soft chest.

“Woo-hoo! Hooo-ooo!” Lucky screams, his beer bottle toppled sideways and gushing out sudsy celebration onto the bar.

He jumps around giving his sister-in-law a high five and a hug, and his wife a firm kiss on the lips and a pat on her buttocks. Part of Cindy wants to scold him for the pat, but she can’t bring herself to ruin the moment of happiness or the enjoyment of his public kiss. However, she does return the gesture a little harder than she received it.

Janet holds her hand up to Chester. He gives her a five, and she slides her fingers between his and squeezes, holding it for a moment before letting go.

Lucky leans in toward Chester, “You’re right, Chaz; this one’s a long way from being over! I believe you.”