Last summer I witnessed a remarkable and memorable incident. It began with a call from an old friend. Gord and I had met before pre-school and over the years we had managed to stay good friends. We hung around together through high school even though his group was the druggies and mine was the kids who hung out at the school library. Against my bride's wishes, Gord had been the best man at our wedding. After the wedding my wife won out and Gord and I drifted apart. I ended up with a good job at the front counter of our local plumbing company and the last I had heard, Gord had headed out across country on his Harley.
On this particularly hot, dry Sunday afternoon my wife had gone off grocery shopping which left me sitting around trying to find excuses for not doing the chores she had left me. Then the phone rang.
"Guess who?" asked a familiar voice.
"Gord, how the hell are you?" It was good to hear from him again.
"I'm fine Harry, listen I'm only in town for one day, I'm staying over at a friend's place, why don't you come over for a few beers and watch the football game"
He gave me directions then hung up.
That left me with a decision to make; either spend one of the hottest days of the year prying the dried weeds out of the cracks in the driveway or go see Gord for beers and football. As I grabbed my hat on the way out the door I thought about leaving my wife a note, and then gave my head a shake.
I followed the directions to Gord's friend's house. The closer I got, the seedier the neighborhood became. An abandoned car, mostly stripped guarded the entrance to the cul-de-sac I had to turn down. The area looked awfully desolate. The paint on the houses was faded and peeling. There were no white picket fences in this neighborhood just chain link and barricades. I double checked the directions, they seemed right. I wasn't sure how safe this was going to be but Gord had never let me down before so I didn't see any reason to doubt him now. I pulled up to the front of a derelict house.
A mass of refuse littered the dirt brown front lawn, dominated by two fridges lying on their backs with their doors thrown open and a half dozen Harley's haphazardly parked. I parked my own aging Cavalier sedan at the curb and grabbed the case of beer I had brought. I wound my way carefully through the junk, went to the steel reinforced front door and knocked.
A loud yell from inside startled me and I looked around, not sure of what to do. The door opened moments later and Gord was standing there smiling.
"Nobody knocks on the door." He laughed, shook my hand and took the beer. I followed him into a crowded living room. It smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and pot. Among the group of sweaty, grubby looking men sat a group of four at a faded red Formica kitchen table, playing poker. The biggest of this group squinted at me over a bottle of JD he was chugging. Not a happy drunk I quickly decided. A number of others were sitting on chairs and on the floor around the TV. None of them would ever have to worry about getting on the cover of GQ.
Gord introduced me to the group but none of them even made the effort to shake my hand. I had the impression they found my presence amusing. I sat down at the end of the decrepit couch and settled in. A waft of parched air swept in over my back from the open front room window. Squinting back I could see my car out on the street. The start of the game drew my attention back into the room. In front of me was the TV, blaring with beer commercials. Just to the left of it was a door which was open to a dingy bathroom while a door on the right was closed.
The inside of the house was in rough shape. Holes were punched in the walls and here and there were stains where food or drink had been thrown at them and never cleaned off, the shag carpet was a rust color from the seventies with dirt and bottle caps and cigarette butts ground in, not a place you take your shoes off. Gord and I got to talking and I started to feel a little more comfortable. He had done a lot of interesting things since I had seen him last and if only half of it was bullshit he was lucky to be alive.
I caught some movement in the front yard and glanced out. A midnight black, Mercedes S-Class was parking out front. I stared in disbelief. A woman preened herself in the vanity mirror before opening the door and stepping out from the air conditioned haven. She looked up and down the street before walking to the sidewalk leading to the front door of the house. My heart stopped. Walking towards me was a chestnut haired brunette in her mid thirties, her carefully coiffed hair cascading down to the middle of her back. She wore patent black kid pumps with spiked heels and snug grey stirrup pants which hugged her long elegant legs, wide hips and narrow waist. She had on a light grey silk shirt which strained to contain her full breasts.
Gord nudged me back to reality. "It's Mariana."
"Mariana?" I asked "Mariana, the realtor?"
Besides having her image plastered over every second bus bench in the city I also knew Mariana from a house hunting experience. As newlyweds, my wife and I had scoured the city looking for a home. One of our searches led us to an open house in an upscale neighborhood. Mariana happened to be the agent for the seller and our introduction to her was brief. She greeted us doubtfully at the door, and while I was checked out her gorgeous figure she took careful note of our clothes and of the car we had arrived in.
I looked from the goddess in the doorway and then at my wife and I swear to God, in my head, I heard Monty Hall's voice shouting out;
"So Harry, do you want what you have or... what's behind door number three?"
The decision was made for me a second later when I heard her speak.
"Too much for you," Mariana said flatly as the door slammed in our face.
Never before and never since have I seen my wife so hurt and then, so angry.
I wondered what would bring her here. Maybe she was listing this dump? Impossible, Mariana would never touch anything on this side of town. Maybe this was a rental she was the property manager for?
Gord started talking but everything was secondary to the sight of that woman strutting across the yard.
"The story goes she wasn't getting what she needed at home," he paused to let the words sink in "so she picked Jake up off the street." He nodded towards undoubtedly the best looking guy in the room, which wasn't saying much.
"I thought she married a judge," I mumbled.
Gord nodded and then rambled on. "But she dumped Jake and the last few times she's come over to see Bernie."
Bernie was the leader of the group, the red faced, oversized man clenching the bottle of JD at the card table.
Mariana entered the house without knocking. Luscious brown eyes guided her long legs and petite feet, picking their way confidently through the waste on the floor. Pouty, full lips pulled back over perfect white teeth to reveal a Hollywood starlet smile. She looked completely out of place as she moved elegantly to stand behind Bernie, ignoring everyone else in the room. I watched as she leaned over and put her arms around his neck, nibbling on his ears. She whispered something. I tried but I just couldn't hear.
For his part Bernie barely acknowledged her presence. When he did speak Mariana winced.
"No, I can't go in the back room with you." He burst out, throwing his cards on the table. "I've lost a hundred and fifty bucks in the last hour and I'm not getting up until I've won it all back" he looked down miserably at his tiny stack of coins and bills.
