Call it harmonic convergence. Call it luck of the Irish. Or just call it the right place at the right time. The middle of the baseball season and the sport's two top teams are going to war again on Barry's television on a day he has off from work. Not only that, but his regular every other day phone call from his former boss now relocated to North Carolina won't be until well after the game has concluded.
But Barry missed Marjorie a lot and if she had called during the game he would have put the mute button on. She had been gone a little over eight months. The ache of her absence had only been bearable in that they talked almost four times a week, emailed as much and had yet to twitter their relationship.
He wadded up the deli delivery bag and fired it at the waste basket as he remembered Marjorie's words. "I still love my husband. What I can do is, for now." Would she ever look at him as more than a physical fling, or a very close friend with benefits? She had given him a world class blowjob then taught her paramedic daughter how to do the same on him. But all of that paled by comparison beside the fact that she understood the Oedipus thing in his head.
It hadn't scared Marjorie Whitcomb off. She almost seemed to embrace it. It was only one benchmark of his love for her. He needed to tell her face to face, not make her choose, because that was way too risky. Yet Barry realized that for his own peace of mind he had to look into Marjorie's crystal clear blue eyes and tell her that he loved her, not just for now, but for ever. His pleadings to Saint Anthony bore fruit and the remote control appeared in the folds of his recliner just in time to click up the game and the national anthem.
Before him sat a feast fit for a king. Their signature roast beef hero with mayo, pickles the size of a Louisville Slugger, and a cold six-pack of root beer all awaited his attention. The radio was on to get the home team broadcast, even though they were in enemy territory. His mouth started to water as the sandwich headed toward his teeth.
Then his apartment door bell rang. And rang and rang. "Sonuvagun!" he said and plodded slowly to the door with one eye on the screen. Warm up pitches were in process. He looked out the peephole in the door and saw nothing, but the door across the hall. "Stupid brats," he muttered, thinking it was a weekend with no parents watching the kids visiting the grandparents in the building and the little brats thinking it is fun to ring doorbells on the old people and run.
Barry had just lowered himself back into the recliner when the door bell rang again and again. Fists started to bang on the door. He bolted from the chair and didn't bother to use the peephole as he wanted to catch the little rugrats in the act. Barry jerked the door open and a full grown woman in shag cut black hair and a petite maid's outfit which left no doubt as to what she was serving ran by him into the apartment foyer.
"Close the door. He's following me!" said the woman. Her legs, in fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, had the contour of a thoroughbred. "You've got to hide me."
"Hide you? From what? I don't even know you," said the slightly shell shocked man, stealing a quick glance past the maid toward the TV where the top of the first had commenced.
"You don't know me?" she said, racing toward hysterics. "That's a fine how do you do after my mom told me that I could come to you with my problems."
"Jeannie? But you've got black hair," said Barry, who now started to see the resemblance to the paramedic daughter of his paramour.
She tugged the black wig from her head releasing her brunette locks. "It's a wig, brainiac! And no, I haven't quit the paramedics to be a maid. This is just a, well. You've got to hide me."
"From who?" The answer came with a thunderous pounding upon his door.
"Get out here, Mistress Eve! I'm not through with you yet!" said the man, screaming and pounding in concert.
"Who the hell is that?" asked Barry.
"Well, remember the lessons that you and Mom imparted unto me?" began Jeannie, clearly frightened and trembling. Even her very ample bosom was peppered with goosebumps.
"I started to practice them and picked up a few more tips along the way. Then I let my imagination run away with me and found this maid's outfit and I liked how men reacted and."
"And you got in over your head?" finished Barry. The pounding was now both hands interspersed with a kick or two at the wooden door. "Okay, I'll get rid of him. What's his name?"
"Jojo, but you don't understand."
"Nothing to understand. You go hide in the bedroom. I'll take care of this. Go! Hide in the bedroom."
"Where's the bedroom?" she asked.
"Right next to the bathroom."
She winced. "Where's the bathroom?"
He pointed down the hall. "Turn left at the urinal." When she had gone, he sucked up a deep breath and opened the door to a well over six foot, sculpted and inked up piece of human flesh that Peter Parker would have needed to web up for. A bare chest surrounded by a tight leather vest over leather stovepipe pants and a huge Harley Davidson anniversary belt buckle you could surf the big one at Big Sur with, if you ever had a death wish. His brows formed a V between eyes that looked like ping pong balls soaked in gasoline. Barry was afraid he was ready to huff and puff and, well, you know the rest.
"Where's Mistress Eve?" he growled, trying to look past Barry who was big enough to block most of his sight line.
"Nobody by that name here. I was just watching the game," Barry replied, nonchalantly pointing back to the TV set he was longing to see.
"Yeah? So what's the score?"
"Dammed if I know, I had to get up to answer the door. Now if you'll excuse me?" he said, and started to close the door. A hand slammed against it.
"I smell her perfume."
"No, the Sisters of the Poor were just here making their annual pitch. Got all gussied up too, perfume and the whole nine yards," Barry said, dancing as fast as he could. "I could see where you might make that mistake. Well, got to go. The game is on."
