Phone Call

You don't tell the bartender that  the guy your wife's fucking with is in this hotel right now waiting for her to show up. You know it's true—you hacked into her e-mail a month ago. They've had this meeting planned for weeks. You know the exact time she'll arrive.

You sit at the hotel's plush bar, alternately staring at the Miller Lite clock above the back bar, then into the bottom of your drink. You rotate the glass between the palms of your hands and you think of the bitch. Your gut hurts. You could crush the glass in your hand. But why waste the booze? You gulp the drink down.

You feel the bartender's eyes on you, and when he sets the second double Scotch in front of you he says, "Hey, ain't you Mean Maxie Malone? Played pro ball for the Bears, couple of years back? Linebacker?"

You raise your head. You try to be friendly. You smile. "Yeah, man. That's me."

"You the same guy who tore them up in the league with them blasts through the offensive line to crunch the quarterback? Season after season?"

You nod. "Yeah, man. "

He gets excited. He grins from ear to ear. "I'll never forget that Sunday afternoon a couple of years back when you killed the Packers. I mean, killed them single-handed. You must've laid out six of them. A wide receiver, a defensive end, and their quarterback, for sure."

"Had a good day," you say, remembering especially how you drilled the quarterback.

The guy's short, pudgy, red-faced. Toothy smile. He pours another double. "On the house," he says, and slides the drink across the bar. "Chirst, I always thought your were the greatest—right up there with the best of 'em. Including Butkus. Must've been great to make it in the pros." And he rattles on how he played only second string in high school but still loved the game.

You don't tell him how it really is with you. How you grew up with an old lady and old man who were drunks. You don't tell him how your old lady never cooked a decent meal in her life and your old man beat the shit out of you whenever he got drunk and never provided you with decent house or clothes. Or how you took out your anger and frustrations on the football field and wrestling matt. That you were so dedicated to getting even with the world—so mean—Mean Maxie Malone—that you earned scholarships from everywhere for both sports, but you chose football because of the money, but you only made it through high school and college with the help of a bunch tutors. You don't tell him about the concussions, the torn ligaments, the cracked ribs, the fractured collarbones, the twisted ankles.

And you don't tell him how after twelve years with the pros you thought you'd mellowed out. You'd proved your point. You'd almost become jovial. Now you got some money saved, you make motivational speeches at high schools and colleges all across the country, and you got a taste of the good life. Except you got a wife who's fucking around when you're gone.

You don't tell the bartender that the guy your wife's fucking with is in this hotel right now waiting for her to show up. You know it's true—you hacked into her e-mail a month ago. They've had this meeting planned for weeks. You know the exact time she'll arrive. You know his room number. You don't tell the pudgy, red-faced bartender that the guy you're wife's fucking is a writer who ghost wrote your success story—Mean Maxie Malone Mellows Out. The book'll hit bookstores in hardback first of the year. You got a hundred-thousand-dollar advance. And there's talk of a movie deal.

You keep it all inside and it ties your stomach in knots, and when you see it's nearly eight o'clock you cut the bartender off. "Got to make a phone call," you tell him.

He lays a napkin on the bar, gives you a pen, and asks you for your autograph. "Sure," you tell him with a smile, and scribble your name across the napkin.

"I remember the time," he says, "in the Pro Bowl when you intercepted a pass and ran it back eight-five yards for a TD."

"Excuse me," you say. "Got to make a call. You have a great evening, man."

"Maxie Malone," he says, wiping the bar. "My god, I got Mean Maxie Malone's autograph."

You keep it all inside and it burns like fire. You shamble out of the bar, pushing the swinging half-doors aside, and step into the hotel lobby. You sink your six-four, 240-pound body—only ten pounds over your playing weight—into a chair where you can see the hotel's front door. You whip out your cell phone, call the hotel, and ask the clerk to connect you with room 331. It rings twice, then a click, a voice: "Hey, babe! Where are you?"

The words churn up a gallon of acid in your stomach, but you keep your cool. Making your voice smile, you say, "Artie! It's me, Maxie Malone. How you doing, man?"

"Who—?"

"Maxie Malone, man! Ain't seen or heard from you for a while? How you doing, Artie?"

Silence. Then a struggle for words. "Oh, h-hi, Maxie. Great to hear your voice again. How you doing?"

"Just got home early from being on the road. Couple of speeches in Tennessee. Ginger told me you'd called and said you're passing through. Got an email from my agent. Says the movie deal for the book is looking good. She tell you that? Thought you'd like to know. How you doing, Artie?"

His voice cracks.  "I—I'm just great, Maxie."

"I was just telling Ginger we ain't seen you for ages. Not since we wrapped up the book, actually. We shouldn't let an awesome partnership like this die."

"Yeah...it's been a while."

You partially cup your hand over the cell phone, muffling your voice, and call off to the side: "Ginger, sweetheart, how long's it been since we seen Artie Townsend?"

"What?" Artie says.

You wait a second, then speak: "Talking to Ginger, Artie. She says the last time she saw you was here in town at the Country Club's New Year's Eve party. What? Three months ago. We'd finished the book, but you hadn't left town—I had a gig in Chicago."

"Look, Maxie—"

"Remember? I couldn't make it to the party.  Flight snowed in at O'Hara. Ginger bitched about me being gone so much and her having to stay home all the time I told her to go with you."

"Yeah," Artie says. "We had a good time—it was a nice party."

"Ginger never told me this, but the word gets around, you know. She never told me—"

"Look, Maxie—"

 "—about her getting so smashed, you practically had to carry her out of the joint, draped all over you."

He says quickly, "People exaggerate, Maxie. She was just tired. That's all. Just tired. People make a big deal out of nothing. They exaggerate, you know?"

"She used to do that a lot, get smashed, but I thought she was over that. She'd reformed. Dried out. I never got a chance to thank you for taking care of her, Artie. You left the next day. Before I got home."

"It was really nothing. Believe me."

"Don't say that, Artie." The phone trembles in your hand. "It was everything. I owe you, man. No telling what kind of trouble she might've got herself into."

"Maxie—"

"Look, Artie...Ginger says I should ask what you're doing tonight?"

A long silence follows until Artie clears his throat. "Um...nothing. But listen, Maxie—"

You turn your head, muffle your voice with your hand. "He says he's doing nothing tonight, Ginger."

"What—?"

"I was just telling my lovely wife you were doing nothing tonight, Artie.  She says how about if we all go out?"

His voice suddenly seems scratchy, like his throat is sandpaper. "I'm not feeling well, Maxie. Upset stomach. And I got this early flight in the morning. I just called earlier to say hello."

"Hell, you can make it, Artie. Tough guy like you."

"Honest, Maxie. I can't."

"For old times? Celebrate the movie deal?"

"I swear—"

"For Ginger's sake? She'd love to see you."

He coughs again. "Max, no lie...I'm not feeling well. And I got this early flight in the morning."

You turn you head again and muffle your voice. "He can't make it, sweetheart. He's not feeling too good. And he's got an early flight."

"What—?"

"I was just telling Ginger you couldn't make it because you're not feeling too good and you got an early flight."

"I'm sorry, Maxie."

You been watching the lobby door, and finally she struts in. You grip the phone harder, and your knuckles turn white. She's tall and leggy in a red clingy dress, cut low around the neck and cut short around the knees. Her red hair's piled high on her head in curls. Long gold ear rings with circles on the end dangle from her ears.

Her lips are curved in a half-smile as she scurries to the elevator, looking neither left nor right. She pokes the button and then taps the toe of a spiked red shoe on the tiled floor in front of the elevator. You wonder if she remembers she was nothing but a cheap bar slut with a long history of one-night stands until you found her and felt sorry for her because her life as a kid mirrored yours. You sobered her up. You dressed her in fancy clothes, gave her money and jewelry, and promised her the good life. She promised to be faithful, loving, and sober. But then a fucking writer shows up—a high-class guy—and she kicks your fucking ass to the sidelines.

Your lips tremble in rage. You can hardly stop your voice from breaking. "Artie, Ginger says I got to get my ass in gear if we're going out. Man, she's hot. She's wearing this clingy, slinky red dress. Boobs and legs to die for."

"Sure, Maxie. You better get ready."

"I'll call you. Keep you posted about them movie rights."

"You do that."

As she steps onto the elevator, you snap your cell phone closed and jam it into your pants pocket. You feel like a raging animal inside—like it's first down, one yard to go for the opposing team to score the winning TD, but you're going to pulverize their running back and make him cough up the football.

You march across the lobby into the bar. The pudgy, red-faced bartender smiles his toothy smile. "Another Scotch?"

"Make it a double."

You figure to give her just enough time to rap on his door and step inside his room for a second or two.

The bartender sets up your drink and starts in again. "Looks like you're still in shape," he says. "Like you could still rip an entire offensive line apart."

You swallow the drink down in a single gulp and wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You think of the panic that must be on the bastard's face this instant—because he's opened the door and sees her standing there dressed in a slinky red dress, cleavage and legs gleaming.

"Still in shape," you tell the bartender, and smile for the first time. "And feeling like my old self. Mean as hell—Mean Maxie Malone." You push quickly through the bar's swinging half-doors and step into the lobby again. Then you cross to the carpeted stairs that lead to the hotel's third floor and take them three at a time...

The End