Bluff

I’ve been writing Adam fake stories for Sports Illustrated for a while and he’s just now starting to get shit from his bosses.

“Hey man,” he says, “that part about the brawl behind the curtain at the press center at Skydome was awesome but how did you get back there?”

“I didn’t,” says I, “I made the whole thing up.”

“Oh,” he says, “well we can’t use the thing where the baby sneaks into the beer vendor’s stand and drinks the 64 ozer and then curls up inside the plastic cup because, uh, babies aren’t supposed to drink and that vendor could get fired.”

“What!? You’re fucking journalists. You’re not supposed to worry about who gets fired. The baby went back there didn’t he? That was the best item I got.”

“Well maybe,” says Adam, “The other thing is when you write all the excruciating details about one single play, it’s really fantastic writing and I would love it if they would print that but they want more quotes and summary of the whole game. And the section about the storm. Like I say its very well written and so tactile, the images of the roiling moisture and so forth but they are going to come down on me about it. That’s the thing.”

“Well why don’t you get Sports Illustrated to actually get me a press pass so I can do some real reporting?”

“Yeah maybe I’ll do that.”

“And I have that car now,” says I, “so I can get to the games if I want and have enough time.”

“That’s right,” he says, “that’s right: the car. Yeah maybe we’ll do that.”

“Lets go up the beach.”

The beach is not flat and full of sand. It’s bluffs with wisps of thick fibrous grasses holding the earth back from an eroding seashore. The water’s cold. We’re in the north, but the sun’s nice and it seems like New England summer.

There’s a point of land like a small cape or a breakwall stretching out from the foot of the hotel. A girl with springy hair and glasses washes the window in the hotel’s main door. I roll up into the hotel and tell the bell woman I’m on the sixteenth floor which is a lie. I don’t even stay at this hotel. It’s very fancy.

The woman is huge, too tall. She lifts me up by my ankles and holds me like that, dangling above the floor though her fists and my ankles are just about at her shoulder. She throws me out the door, past the girl washing glass.

“Run,” says I. And me and Adam do, around past the point and handfuls of vacationers on the small slope there where a real beach with some pebbles is protected by the ridge. Little kids play with pails and adults lay on blankets. Not that many though.

The hotel manager, the bell woman, and the window-washing girl pursue. The manager is yelling at us. This is hotel property here, behind the hotel, near the beach. The manager wears a pink and green skirt suit and waves her hands menacing.

I turn and lead Adam the other way, up a high much steeper slope above the beach in back of the hotel. My feet make contact with the slope and carry a bit of the way but soon I’m on my hands and belly, pulling on the thick clumps of grass, because it’s too steep to run. The earth’s in my fingers and there’s sun and sweat on my back. Adam doesn’t seem too happy to be doing this. The women are behind us, climbing and shouting.

We haul ourselves over the summit. Trees and shrubs like those on the edges of the slope fill the top of the high mound. We’re not quite higher than the top of the hotel but the hotel manager and her staff are after us. Adam ducks quickly into an outhouse and I jump in after. It’s a little awkward. I’m sitting on his lap so I stand against the door.

The hotel manager, the bell woman, and the girl bang in fury against the door but it’s locked. Adam flushes himself down the toilet and he’s gone. Escaped.

I open the door swiftly, yank the girl with springy hair and glasses into the outhouse. I fumble with the lock but the other women are so surprised they pause and can’t throw their thick arms in the outhouse door.

The girl’s surprised too. But the outhouse is all ours now. I kiss her. She’s excited. We make out. Whew.

(I dreamed this.)