Disconnected
DISCONNECTED
by J. Cafesin
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Copyright ©2016 by J. Cafesin
Published by Entropy Press at Smashwords
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DISCONNECTED is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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DISCONNECTED
Copyright ©2014/2016 J. Cafesin
All rights reserved.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise distributed without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to:
Entropy Publications, San Francisco, CA
query@entropypublishing.com
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Entropy Press® is a registered trademark of Entropy Publications, LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
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ISBN-13: 978-0692248959 (Entropy Press)
ISBN-10: 0692248951
1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Memoir. 3. Women's—Fiction
4. Historical—Memoir 5. Addiction—Fiction 6. Depression—Fiction
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Printed in the U.S.A
First Edition: July, 2014
Second Edition: August, 2016
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Cover design by TargetMediaDesign
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Chapter 1
10/30/91
Intuition is a flash of insight. Neither telepathy, nor stroke of divinity, its enlightenment comes from empirical evidence, consciously or unconsciously attained. Intuition may not tell you what you want to hear, but if ignored, you're basically fucking yourself.
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It's hard to tell what's happening at first. The video is blurry, shot at night, and in black and white. I can make out a police car with its headlights on, lighting up a group of cops loosely encircling a guy trying to get up off the ground. The video sharpens to clarity as a cop, wielding a baton, slams it full force into the guy's head, like he's batting a T-ball. The guy goes down again. The image jitters, as if whoever is filming felt the blow. It's always shown with no sound, leaving the newscaster to narrate the scene.
"Shocking! Deeply disturbing footage," Stan Chambers, the sage of the KTLA Morning News, manages to mix the right amount of righteous indignation with urgency in his delivery. "This is an obvious case of racial profiling, and blatant police brutality," Stan insists. So much for unbiased reporting.
Video pulls back to reveal two officers relentlessly clubbing the guy on the ground. He curls onto his side to avoid the blows, then rolls to his other side in a fetal position as the pummeling continues. An officer among the many standing around watching the beating yells and gestures at guy to lay face down. He does, rolls onto his belly and stills. The beating stops, and for a moment there's peace, like no one knows what to do next.
"Mr King was savagely beaten by LAPD officers..." and Rodney King's mug shots come on-screen. Only then is it obvious he's Black. His right eye is swollen shut, his cheeks and forehead bloody. White butterfly bandages above his thick brows stand out against his dark skin.
"So, what are you doing right now?" Lee asked me. I'd forgotten he was on the line. His question felt invasive, verging on lewd, like he was peeping into my bedroom.
I'd clicked on the TV after prompting him to "Tell me about being Lee," and he began reciting the same script as the twenty guys before him. Thirty-something, athletic, successful entrepreneur,' at a great space in his life.' All he wanted (not 'needed'—'wanted' makes one better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. My intuition bridled. How fulfilling could his life possibly be, if, like me, he was looking for love in personal ads in the L.A. Daily News?
"Is that the TV I hear, or are you with someone?" He asked casually, but there was an edge of 'why did you call me if you're with somebody.'
"Just me. Well, and my roommate, who's probably still sleeping. Oh, and my dog, of course." I muted the TV, looked over at Face curled in her beanbag bed, whimpering and twitching, lost in a doggy dream. Made me feel safer somehow, declaring I had allies on hand.
The video demands my attention when one of the loitering cops near Rodney savagely stomps on his head. King's bulbous body writhes on the ground with the blow. Police resume beating him, alternating between baton blows and violent kicks to his head and back. Miraculously, he manages to sit up, tries to shield himself from the relentless pummeling. Clearly dazed, he sits on the ground holding his head, then a half dozen cops pounce on him at once, throw him on his stomach, pull his arms behind him, and cuff him.
"I don't have a roommate. Or a dog either. But I like dogs. What kind of dog do you have?"
"A Shepard pound hound," I announced with a hint of bravado. "Seven years old and at the top of her form. She's a bit of a brat. Somewhat possessive, though she generally likes most everyone I do."
Lee chuckled, like he got my implication. "So, tell me more about being Rachel."
I flashed a tempered grin he'd turned my question to him back on me."What would you like to know?"
Rodney King can be seen hogtied and writhing on the ground through the group of cops standing around him. Camera pulls back to reveal several police cars exiting the parking lot and driving away. A brief passing tension as I envisioned one of them driving over King's head and crushing it in. I wondered if Rodney thought of it right then.
"Hmm..." Lee mused. "Let's start with something simple. You into the whole workout craze? Biking, hiking, any sports?"
I smiled again, knowing his angle. The main concern of women when blind dating is that the guy's a psycho-killer. Guys want to know if the woman is fat.
"I play racquetball."
“Really? I do too. Well, used to. Started playing in high school. Kind of gave it up after college, but I'd love to get back into it. Great game. Quick. Focused. Rather brash, though. Haven't met a lot of women that are into it. It ain't exactly tennis."
"I suck at tennis. My mind drifts with the pacing." It was true racquetball was not a popular sport among women. But it bugged me he pointed it out, as if suggesting women were weak. "I'm pretty sure I can give most guys a fairly good workout on a racquetball court though."
Strike one, was his 'at a great space in his life,' monologue. Strike two, the first thing he wants to know about me is what every other heterosexual guy wants to know before meeting, and it ain't my I.Q.
Verging on strike three with his sexist slam, I considered how to end the call politely.
"Are you one of those women who's only satisfied with the victory when you compete with men?"
"I play for the calorie burn, so I don't like to stop rallies for servers. I generally don't play for points." Racquetball was my only healthy fix over bouts with bulimia and speed. Heroin thin was in, according to the media, and my mother— the authority on proper façades. "Are you like most guys whose manhood hinges on winning?"
"Touché." Lee laughed. "I'll play you. Anytime. And we don't have to keep score. I can probably give you a workout too, and I sure could use one." He paused, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter flicking, and then him taking a hit off a joint.
Definite strike three. Say thanks for the chat and hang up! But I didn't. "What are you doing right now?"
He hesitated, exhaled a whistling sigh. "Hmm...I asked you first. What are you doing right now?"
I considered lying. I just didn't have the energy to fabricate something glib right then. "Let's see...before I called you, I was scribbling some thoughts before starting my day." I dare not confess Lonely became so choking I called my Daily News mailbox one last time. Lee's was the only message, and came last week, close to a month after every other response.
"So, you're a writer," Lee said, with an oo-la-la edge. "Poetry? Fiction? You a novelist?"
"Nope. Just journaling."
"Ah, as in keeping a diary? Or are you penning a memoir?" His continued focus on me felt unnerving. I was usually the one interviewing. With just the simplest of prompts most men blatted on about themselves, turning few to none of my questions around. Twenty-three phone chats, and the five men from my ad that I met 'for coffee,' which I don't drink, were equally self-absorbed, as men tend to be, ensconced atop the social order for eons.
"I stopped keeping a diary when I was ten. And a memoir is an oxymoron, at best, as memory is faulty— a construct of the writer's perception of their past." I tried to channel Dorothy Parker, but surely sounded more pretentious than clever. "Honestly, I was just screwing around with prose."
"Sounds like a good read. Must be fun, screwing around in your head." He paused, and I swear, I felt him smiling. "I envy creative people, I mean."
I smiled. "I must admit, making it with my muse tops out my list of favorite things to do. Reliable entertainment without complications." Like masturbation, but I didn't say it.
"Imagination as an endless source of self-contained amusement. I like it." He paused."Well, you seem normal enough. Intriguing, even. Why is it you're still single if you don't want to be?"
I heard him hit the joint again and felt the draw of desire, that part of my brain that craved escape from fear and want, and the weight of my ordinary life. "My mother tells me I'm too...much. My sister would say I want too much." I matched his directness with purpose but suddenly felt exposed with my confession."What about you? Why are you still single?"
"I'm not."
Strike FOUR— Walk. HANG UP!
"But we filed for divorce back in February."
A married (soon to be divorced or not) stoner (he was sure to be blatantly getting buzzed at 9:00 in the morning), was not the knight I'd been holding out for. My intuition screamed at me to dismiss this man. Say goodbye and hang up. But I didn't.
"We've been separated almost a year now. I haven't seen or spoken to her for over nine months. Just waiting on the final papers."
"I don't date married men." It made my skin crawl when illicit lovers were blithely complicit in the corruption of a marriage. And I had no intention of becoming a casualty of a divorcee's inability to keep his commitments.
"I don't date married women. My marriage is over. If you're worried about that, don't be." He spoke softly but with conviction.
"OK." But it wasn't. "Look, you sound like a really nice guy—"
"And you sound like a very bright lady, and I'd love to get together for coffee or something, get acquainted in person."
I sighed. "I told you, I don't 'get acquainted' with married guys." Or stoners, but I didn't say it.
"I get it," he said with humor. "How about we just play racquetball then? There's a club on Ventura near Vineland with regulation courts. Racquet World, I think it's called. I'm off by 3:00 most every afternoon. Play you tomorrow if you're available."
Say bye bye and HANG UP, my intuition said clearly.
But I didn't.
I unmuted the TV and watched the handful of police left in the parking lot meander around Rodney, still hogtied face down on the ground.
"...captured by accident while testing a new video camera, and given exclusively to KTLA, we first aired this footage back in early March, and it has sparked a national debate..." Stan has a hint of glee in his rich tenor, but keeps it out of his expression as camera is back on him at the news desk. The anchor is secretly salivating, picturing where to display his Peabody.
That was where the video clip always ended, and the viewer was left wondering what the evil cops would do to poor Rodney next. A perfect cliffhanger, edited to insight outrage. And it did. I understood that racial equality was still fiction, like equal rights for women, but I could not sanction the media canonizing a violent felon just because he was Black. Still, the countless times the horrific scene aired, daily, the clip always commanded my attention. It was like watching A Clockwork Orange, or a train wreck about to happen.
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Chapter 2
It was clear Lee was better than me within the first five minutes. By a lot. He commanded center court and kept me running. His strokes landed the small blue ball with loud, hollow bangs against the white walls that echoed in the expansive enclosure. He was impressive to watch, had great timing, and was so focused on the ball, at times it seemed as if he were sucking energy from the room, then using it to power each hit.
“You play well," he said humbly after an extended rally. He bounced the ball on the glossy hardwood floor in instead of putting it in play. Maybe 5'9”, baby-face, he was pudgy—what's called 'stocky' on a guy, though likely labeled 'fat' on a woman.
"And you're an amazing player,” I conceded breathless. “Though you were a bit vague about your skill level on the phone. I'm trying not to feel set up here."
His full lips took on this arresting, ear-to-ear grin. "Thought you said it's all about the workout." He ran his hand through his full head of thick, chestnut hair—unusual for mid-30's men, with so many balding by then.
"And you're definitely giving me one," I practically panted. “Thanks for agreeing not to play for points.”
"No problem. Not stopping for serves keeps it fast and fluid. I like it. Very zen.” He bounced the ball a few more times then held it, looked at me and stuck out his tongue in feigned exhaustion. “You're giving me a hell of a workout.” He held the ball up. “You ready?”
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I was. His green eyes stayed focused on me until an instant before he put the ball in motion.
He backed off a bit, played less aggressively, syncing us into a smooth, even rhythm. Each rally seem to last longer, and the longer they lasted the more charged they became, a visceral energy gathering between us with each hit that extended the play.
"Great rallies today. I really enjoyed that,” he said while we cooled down with Diet Cokes in the club lobby.
“Me too. It was fun. Thanks for the game.”
“Thank you.” And he raised his Diet Coke can and we toasted. “To fun,” Lee said with a grin, then sipped his soda. “I'd like to start having more of it, actually.”
I tensed, waiting for the come-on my intuition told me he'd deliver when he asked me to play ball.
“I'd like to get back into playing more often. Just joined the club, in fact." He flashed an arch of his brow. “Would you be into playing on a regular basis, a couple times a week maybe? You can play as my guest. Free. It's one of the membership perks."
I was down to a few games a month since Jon moved in with Mary. I was back to starving myself chasing thin. I'd been putting ads in The Recycler and notices on the peg boards at local clubs, but I'd yet to find anyone to partner with. Lee's offer was very generous. He was right in front of me, leaning on the opposite wall in the short, narrow hallway to the outdoor tennis courts. His gray t-shirt, tucked haphazardly in his loose black athletic shorts looked blue from the light of the soda machine next to him, as did his face, right out of Dutch masterpiece, or a Nike ad. If he turned out to reliable, he was better than I'd hoped for. And I needed a consistent racquetball partner if I hoped to maintain a body worth noticing among the beautiful people in L.A.
“You clearly play way better than me. You sure I won't bore you?” Why he wanted to play with me was still vague. But his expression of awe when we first met in the lobby told me he'd likely be open for more than just racquetball partners.
“I have serious doubts you could ever bore me, Rachel.” Lee expression took
on his Cheshire grin. “You kept me on my toes today. And that's what I'm looking for. I'm hoping to get back in shape, especially now that I'm back to being single.”
Was that the come-on? Or was he just stating a fact about the build required to compete with Hollywood's standard of chic.
"Why did you run that ad?" he asked flatly.
I stared back at him, feigned ignorance to thwart embarrassment. “Sorry?”
"Well,” he began cautiously. “It seems to me you could date any guy you want."
If it was a come-on, it was the best I'd heard. He sounded like he was stating a fact. Not one of the guys I'd met through my personal ad had ever asked why I placed it. I smiled, then reminded myself I was there to play ball, and nothing more. Lee watched me. Despite his Pillsbury Dough boy build, he really was quite cute. "How old are you, again?"
"Almost thirty nine." His brow furrowed with mock irritation. "Now would you please answer my question? Why did you place that ad?"
"To find what it said, which, as it's turning out, seems to be way harder to come by than a racquetball partner." I gave him a wily grin.
"'Attractive, passionate, creative pro, 5'7", 135, 33, SWF, seeks, imaginative, passionate, pragmatic, independent thinker, with a wild and crazy heart.'" Lee quoted my ad word for word with a haughty smile. "That's me."
"'Who's ready for the real thing.'" I quoted the rest, and returned his cheeky grin. I had no intention of discussing my ad with him since I wasn't there to date Lee. I had no interest in spending a lifetime with a partner who lost the internal battle against his cravings more than I did. I was looking for long and lean, single, and [for the most part] clean.
He took another drink of his soda then looked at the clock on the wall behind the lobby counter. "Look, we just played almost two hours, practically non-stop. It's almost 6:00 and I'm starving. Come get some dinner with me. I'd love your company. And I really hate eating alone."
I hesitated, took a sip of my soda. Racquetball partner was one thing, but beyond that felt like adultery. "Sorry. I told you, I don't go out with married guys."
“And I told you, I'm getting divorced, and just waiting on the final papers.” He studied me. "Besides, I'm not asking you on a date. We're just two friends having dinner and then we'll call it a night. I have to be up at 4:00 in the morning to deal with back east clients, so I generally go to bed pretty early. How about it? We've earned a good meal tonight.”