PALINDROME (12 page)

In all the episodes I had lived out,
portraying others, I had never gone this far. It had always been a
hit and run; use someone’s identity for a quick rush or as means to
an end. It was usually done to extricate one of us from a sticky
situation. Believe me, though, I’ve fantasized about it. I mean
it’s the stuff a young woman’s dreams are made of. Who hasn’t
thought of being someone else and having that lusty romance you’ve
only read about in a tawdry novel? I usually had more self control,
but now I wanted him, and I didn’t know how long I could keep the
charade going.

How long would it be before he discovered
that I was not who I was pretending to be? Monster roll: was that
what I was eating or who I was, a combination of physical
characteristics that resulted in something that was not supposed to
be? I was not Allie. I only looked like her. The Allie he knew was
not real. The facts of her life had been manufactured to suit my
needs. My performance was only convincing enough to bully my way
through a legal proceeding and collect a large monetary reward. I
should have been smart enough to finish dinner, thank Emilio for
his kindness, and make Allie disappear forever, but as I sat at the
table with this handsome and charming man, eating delectable food
and making social conversation, I knew I was about to throw caution
to the wind and dive in head first.

“How is your food?” he asked, gallant to a
fault. “I see that sushi is very popular, even in continental
restaurants, but I haven’t acquired the taste.”

“Amazing,” I replied. I wiped my mouth and
stood up.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything is perfect,” I replied. I put my
hand on his shoulder and looked into his magnificent, turquoise
eyes. There was no turning back. I hesitated for a moment, and then
I kissed him.

Eighteen: I Need More

Shawn
Riley was still in pain. His
back was still in spasm. His supply of heroin was exhausted. It
left him no choice but to crush the oxy and snort it to mask the
craving he had for heroin. Within a day he was dissolving it and
injecting it into his veins. He stuffed a syringe with cotton to
make sure the large particles of OxyContin would be filtered out of
the solution. He had known a junkie that injected oxy “rush-rush”
and had died as a result of a collapsed blood vessel. Riley may
have been an addict, but he was not in a hurry to die. He was
kidding himself, of course, as almost all junkies do, that his
addiction was only temporary and that he would get off the stuff as
soon as his willpower was a little stronger. One day the stars
would align in the proper order and he would get clean, but for
now, the rush he got from a syringe of heroin was like the
contraction from an orgasm and filled his brain with endorphins in
exactly the same way.

Dr. Samuel Rosen’s waiting room was filled
with an incredible assortment of the infirm: patients of all ages,
with their crutches, walkers, and wheelchairs. They were all there
for the same reason, not to get better but to get well, not to get
healthy but to be healed. Pain management was the name of the
game.

Riley looked around the waiting room at the
eclectic assortment of suffering patients and wondered who was
really sick and who, like he, just needed a prescription for pain
meds. There was a familiar face in the corner of the room, someone
he knew from his days of college soccer. Heroin clouds the mind and
eats the memory. Riley was pulling at straws trying to remember his
ex-teammate’s name. Whoever it was, he had his earbuds in and was
listing to music. Riley was still pondering the connection when
someone called his name.

“Shawn?”

Riley looked up. The face that hovered above
him transcended the heroin veil. The name was on his tongue
immediately. He remembered his ex-teammate’s name at the same time.
“Coach Schroeder?” He stood up, doing his best to hide the fact
that he was in extreme pain.

“Shawn, it’s been ages. How have you been,
son?”

“Coach, how are you?” He turned to the other
side of the waiting room and pointed. “Is that Matt? I thought he
looked familiar. What are you doing here?”

Schroeder looked unhappy. “Someone landed on
Matt’s calf during a scrimmage; the kid can barely walk.”

“Oh, sorry, what do they do about that?”

“Muscle relaxers and physical therapy. It’s a
pain-in-the-ass injury. It takes weeks to go away. What happened to
your back? You look like you’re tied up in knots.”

“Yeah, I hurt myself at work.”

“What are you doing these days?”

“Construction. I hurt myself digging.”

“Digging? Don’t they have machines for
that?”

“Can’t use machines for everything.” Riley
shrugged. “How’s the team look?”

“The team looks really good. I’ve got them
out practicing during the off-season. I’m looking for a division
championship this year.” Schroeder scratched his head. “Are you
playing any soccer?”

Riley looked down at the carpet and shook his
head. “No . . . no soccer. I don’t have the energy after I finish
with work.”

Schroeder looked around to see if any of the
other patients were interested in his conversation with Riley. “I’m
sorry we had to cut you from the team, son.”

“Ah, it’s all right.”

“So things are okay with you? I’m glad. They
kicked a lot of kids off the team for steroid abuse that year. I
think it was one of those statewide things. You’re off that stuff,
aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m off that junk. My boss told me I
should get an X-ray. They say I could’ve blown out a disc.”

“Christ, I hope not.”

A door creaked behind them. The physician’s
assistant called out, “Shawn Riley?”

“That’s me,” Riley said. “Good seeing you
again, Coach. Say hello to Matt for me.”

“Absolutely, take care of yourself, son.
Don’t give up on soccer; it’s a great sport.”

“Will do, Coach. Thanks.”

Riley turned and hobbled slowly toward the
doctor’s office. He caught Matt’s eye as he walked past and gave
him a thumbs-up before he disappeared through the doorway.

“Remember him?” Schroeder said to his son
Matt. “He used to be on the squad.”

Matt pulled out his earbuds. “Shawn Riley.
Yeah sure, I remember him.”

“Messed up his back at work. Poor kid’s doing
physical labor. I guess things haven’t been great for him since he
got kicked off the team. Lost his scholarship; what a mess.”

“Physical labor, is that what he told
you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s full of bull. He’s a junkie. He doesn’t
work at anything except scoring dope.”

“Jesus, you’re kidding. Do his parents
know?”

Matt gave his father an expression of
disbelief. “Did you ever meet his parents?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Never once heard him talk about
his family. I think he’s on his own.”

Schroeder shook his head woefully. “Man,
that’s really sad.”

~~~

Dr. Rosen’s assistant weighed Shawn, gave him
a paper dressing gown, and left him to change in the examination
room. She said that the doctor would only be a few minutes. Riley
looked around the room, which was painted a drab color. He checked
the counter to see if there were any choice supplies he could
pocket. There was an assortment of items, cotton swabs and alcohol
swipes. He made a mental note to check the cabinet after the
examination to see if he could score a handful of syringes. He
looked at the wall clock. He had been waiting less than ten minutes
when Dr. Rosen walked in. Rosen was a tall man with curly hair and
a short, bobbed nose. He was dressed in a white physician’s coat,
topsiders, and chinos. He had a reflex mallet in his pocket and a
patient’s chart in his hand.

“Hi, Shawn,” he said reading his name off the
chart. “I’m Dr. Rosen.”

“Hi, Doc.”

“So what’s bothering you, Shawn?” Rosen
pulled up a stool and sat down. He continued to glance at the chart
as he spoke. “Oh, I see you were referred by Keith Cooper,” he
said. Mock revelation was unmistakable in the tone of his voice.
“Chronic back pain?”

“Yeah, my back’s a mess.”

He pulled out a prescription pad. “Fill your
prescription at the pharmacy in the basement and nowhere else,
understand?”

“Okay, but my back really hurts.”

“Of course it does,” Rosen said facetiously.
“I’ll take an X-ray. I can only give you one refill at a time.
Oxycodone is a controlled substance.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here for the prescription,
but I really need you to take a look at my back. I blew it
out.”

Rosen looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Okay,” Rosen said, “let’s have a look.”

Nineteen: Sore Feet

It
was our second night together, not
together-together, not together as in together in physical union,
just together as in spending time with each other. I had taken a
room at the Royalton New York on 44th Street. It was five hundred a
night, but I didn’t care. I still had forty-nine thousand and
change in the bank to back it up, and the BMW I’ve been dreaming
about was still waiting unsold on the dealer’s parking lot. I had
never spent that much on a room before. Ax and I were accustomed to
staying at Motel 6 and had become proficient at duping the clerks.
While on the road, we made it a practice to check in as a single to
save money. I mean you couldn’t tell us apart anyway, and the bump
up on room rate for double occupancy never made sense.

The Royalton was a fashionable hotel. The
room wasn’t large, but it was nicely appointed. The hotel guests
were cool, trendy people and were dressed in the newest styles.
They were all manicured to perfection or grunged to the max to make
a personal statement. Their appearance spoke to their
individuality, and I liked to watch them as they rushed about. I
watched them as they took their appointments, and made their
rendezvous with destiny. Movers and shakers, pretenders and fakers,
it was hard to tell them apart, but they entertained me
nonetheless. It was a far cry from Suffolk County, Long Island. The
only people driving pickup trucks in Manhattan were making
deliveries or repairs. No one in Manhattan drove a flatbed because
it was considered cool. I hadn’t spotted a sleeveless denim shirt
all day.

I was having coffee at the lobby bar, which I
thought was kind of fun, when Emilio entered. He cancelled his
afternoon appointments to be with me, and we had made plans to
visit Chelsea and walk the mile-long High Line.

He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Hello.” He
took my hands as a cue for me to stand. “Let me look at you.” He
was smiling as he gave me a politically correct once over. It made
me tingle all over. I was wearing skinny jeans and boots with high
heels. They weren’t Lexa, oh they definitely weren’t Lexa; they
were most definitely Allie. They looked great, but they were making
my feet hurt already. I was more concerned with my appearance than
with creature comfort. “You look lovely,” he said, “but you’ll be
in agony before we get halfway. Go upstairs and change out of your
boots.”

“No, I’m fine. These are really comfortable,”
I said, lying through my teeth.

“Are you sure? They look fabulous, but we
have a lot of walking to do.”

“Absolutely. I’m good to go.”

“Then let’s go.”

I dropped a few bills on the bar to pay the
tab. “Ready.”

“Walk ahead of me.”

“What?”

“Walk ahead of me. You’ve gone to all this
trouble to look good for me; I might as well enjoy it.” He didn’t
blush, but I did. He was so smooth, so confident and sexy. I did
just as he asked. I walked to the lobby door swaying as
dramatically as I could without looking completely absurd. I looked
back over my shoulder and gave him a wicked smile. He applauded
silently and then hurried to catch up as I walked through the door.
“You’re a tease,” he said as if passing a compliment.

“It’s not a tease when you ask for it, and
you asked for it.”

He gave me another light kiss on the cheek.
“And maybe soon you’ll give it to me.” He stepped into the street
without waiting to see my reaction. A cab was approaching and he
hailed it over. No, he was right, I hadn’t given it to him yet, but
God I wanted to.

He held the door of the cab open for me. I
was still woozy from the endorphin rush. He must have seen that I
was off balance because he grabbed my hand and helped me to sit
down. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’ve never been with anyone like you,
Emilio.”
You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?
I was so
caught up in the moment that I had forgotten to slide across the
seat to make room for him.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“Oh God, yeah.” I knew that his comment had
not been meant as a double entendre, but it played with my mind, as
everything about him did. Every man I had ever been with had been
so much less than Emilio. Some were nice and some not so much, but
they all had one thing in common and that was to get to the finish
line as quickly as possible. “You’re the tease, not me,” I
said.

He stroked my cheek with the back of his
hand. “This is the art of seduction, Allie. Enjoy it.” In the next
instant he was giving directions to the cabbie through the security
partition. I settled back into my seat and took a deep breath. My
heart skipped a beat.

Twenty: Old Friends

Coach
Schroeder yanked open the door
to Ciro’s Pizza. Robert Gerkin heard the door open and looked up
from his newspaper. He waived to his friend.

Schroeder grinned and walked over to the
table. Gerkin smiled, stood, and gave Schroeder a man hug. “Hey,
buddy boy, how
you
doing?” he said reprising Joey
Tribbiani’s salutation from the TV show
Friends
.