Your Song (18 page)

“So, you’d like to send one of our delicious cookie bouquets to a friend? We always try to personalize our bouquets . . . so does your friend have any particular interests? Would you like to send her one of our signature cookie floral arrangements but just personalize it to suit her?” Danielle asks enthusiastically.

I think about Danielle’s name and am reminded of Danny.
I wonder
w
hat he’d say about all of the craziness in my life right now? No doubt, he’d see the humor in it.
Danny had the incredible and innate gift of not taking life too seriously. I remember all of the practical jokes he played on me over the years and can’t help but smile. Danielle’s voice brings me back to the task at hand.

“I was thinking of designing a unique bouquet for this person. I spent some time on your website and had a few ideas I’d like to run by you?” And here goes my creative
or not so creative
idea.

“Would it be possible to create a cookie bouquet with a
bird theme
?” I ask hesitantly.

“Absolutely. We can make a very colorful bird bouquet! What kind of birds did you have in mind? We have cookie cutters in the shape
s of an owl, a dove, a raven, an eagle, a lovebird, a parrot, a flamingo, a puffin . . . .”

“Did you say lovebirds?” I interrupt Danielle. Inspiration comes to me.

“Yes, we have lovebirds. We can do a large bouquet of multi-colored lovebird cookies. At the center of our bouquets we always make a large enough cookie to write a message on. Is there something special you’d like us to write on the center cookie?” She asks.

“I was thinking of . . .
an umbrella as the center cookie . . . with the words . . .
Rain check soon
,” I suggest.
I must sound so stupid.

“Of course. Sounds like a very special and inside story between you two” Danielle offers. I’m sure I’m the only customer who has ordered a bouquet of cookie
birds!

“And what would you like us to write on the inside card?” She asks. Without missing a beat, I tell her exactly what I want to card to say.

“How about, ‘
Had the best time with you.  Hope you’re feeling better. Eric.
’” Keep it simple and short and you can’t go wrong, I figure. I’m sure she’ll get the message behind the bird bouquet. She is the professor.

“How sweet. We could have this delivered as early as tomorrow. The addre
ss and name of the recipient is . . .”

Danielle and I finish off the order and I make my way out of the terminal and into yet another waiting cab.

________________________

As I step off the treadmill, I spot her. She is bending over and lifting some hand weights, watching herself in the mirror as she does her sets. Hot ass, nicely toned arms and gorgeous face. I’ve seen her here before. I make my way closer to the free weights area so I can get an even better look. Long blond hair pulled up in a high ponytail, big blue eyes and perfectly lush lips. This one looks young. No more than twenty-five, I’d say, and very pretty. I grab a white towel from the pile and wipe the sweat dripping from the back of my neck. I leave the towel hanging from my neck to absorb the sweat trickling from my scalp. I take my place about three feet away from her on the mat and lift a weight.

Watching her through the mirror, I do a set of thirty lifts, waiting to catch her eye. As far as my mating ritual goes, I’m right on target. Wedding ring? Check. I take a few more steps to my left inching my way in. I switch arms and start my next set not taking my eyes off the mirror. It’s only the two of us on the mat. Gorgeous blond is on all fours now doing leg lifts. It’s ju
st a matter of time. Three, two . . . one.
Bingo.
Our eyes lock. She smiles.
Got her.

“You look familiar,” she says as she switches legs and starts her next series of lifts.

“Whenever I’m in town this is where I start my day,” I reply as I too go on all fours and position myself to start doing pushups. My eyes are on her the whole time.
Mirrors just make life so much easier.

“Where are you from?” She asks.

“I’m Canadian. Do you live here in Chicago?” I deflect the conversation away from me.

“I moved here when I got married a year ago. Still doesn’t feel like home though,” she says.
And the injustices begin.
Right on the mark. Gorgeous Blond lies on her stomach and starts to do some gentle stretches. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

“So, do you work?” I ask on what feels like my twentieth pushup, sweat still pulsing out of every pore.

“I used to model in New York. No need for that anymore,”
Rolling eyes and sarcasm, all in one sentence.
And this is how it begins. Bored married trophy wife with too much time on her hands and too much cash in her pocket to know what to do with herself. Stroke their ego, listen to their gripes, feed them some much needed attention and you find yourself a half hour later locked in a washroom stall inside the men’s change room at Chicago’s Equinox gym fucking the daylights out of one Gorgeous Blond.

“Are you still in town tomorrow?” Gorgeous Blond asks as we untangle ourselves from the throes of hot, sticky sex. Me, removing the condom with careful ease while she is rolling her tight workout shorts back onto her delectable bottom.  Just as I nod my head, she grips the white towel still hanging around my neck and pulls a bit too forcefully. Her platinum wedding band glistens in my eye.

“Same time, same place. I’ll be here,” she growls through gritted teeth and tugs the towel around my neck a bit harder. Needless to say, the next day, on a bright and early Sunday morning, I return at the same time to the same place and for the first time ever on my business travels, not only do I fuck the same married woman twice but also follow up by inviting her out for breakfast with me. And, after sharing breakfast with me, we fuck again this time in the backseat of one of the many Escalade trucks she has in her fleet, she tells me. And after that fuck session, I meet her again later that evening after my conference wrapped up and we fuck, this time, inside the Jacuzzi, enclosed in the pool area at my hotel. And, very uncharacteristically of me, before she left for the night, I promised her we’d meet again next time I’m in town.

Who would have thought that this would have been one of the last trips I’d have taken playing out my sick fantasy of fucking married women because I find it such a turn on? It was the following day, a Monday, when I boarded the flight back to Toronto and took a glance at a woman completely different than one Gorgeous Blond. Wasn’t it Victor Hugo who said something about the power of a glance?
Have to ask Caroline about that.

Why I’m thinking of that particular Chicago tryst as I’m winding my bike along the trails of Vancouver’s Stanley Park beats me. On my bike is where I find my solace. It’s where I try to make sense of my world and find peace in it. Cycling, for me, is my Zen. I recall an article I read recently about
ciclovia,
the Spanish word for bikeways. In cities around the world, parts of streets are handed over to pedestrians and cyclists on weekend mornings to access recreation safely and freely. I would also add that
ciclovia
helps create community and inclusion. If only more people got together, hopped on a bike and went for a ride instead of squirreling themselves away in front of their computers living virtual lives, and reading about other peoples’ lives, then maybe we wouldn’t feel so isolated. If only people would just take the first step and get on a bike, then maybe they’d experience the serenity that a ride among the trees could bring.  Just as it’s bringing me here and now on this sunny evening in Vancouver.

It’s 9:30 P.M. local time and I’m lying on the pillow top bed, trying to watch some television on the flat panel hoisted on the wall straight ahead of me.  For this trip, Cate booked me into the Fairmont Waterfront hotel on Canada Place in downtown Vancouver.  Jet lag is a bitch. As exhausted as I feel, I’m unable to fall asleep.  Or, maybe I just have too many things on my mind. I stare blankly at the images flashing on the screen in front of me but none of them register. I could check my emails or texts but don’t feel like it. After that long bike ride and a shower, I ordered in some dinner from room service and decided to settle in for the night. A quick run to the hotel cafe downstairs for an espresso seems to have given me a second wind. And now, anxiety is gripping me like a vice.

Thoughts of my psycho stalker are invading my mind and not letting up.
I need to do something.
After playing internal Ping-Pong with myself, the game of should I or shouldn’t I, I finally decide to call Raj back home. Thankfully, he picks up after the second ring.

“Hey Raj, it’s me, Eric. How are you?”

“Hey Eric . . . aren’t you in Vancouver?” Raj asks.

“Yeah, I am. I’m sorry to bother you at night,” I get cut off by
Raj’s voice.

“No bother, man.
Anything for you. How can I help you? Everything all right?” Raj sounds ready and willing to hear about my story. I take a deep breath and begin.

I tell him everything.
Or almost everything. The hang up phone calls, the email that no longer exists, the text that I received yesterday, and about the towel sent to my condo. Last but not least, I tell him about the black roses. While I am recounting psycho stalker’s moves, I notice Raj isn’t making a sound. Maybe he’s jotting down notes, or maybe not. Every once in a while I hear him take a swig of something to drink. His silence starts to freak me out a bit but I refrain from showing it.

“Interesting,” is all Raj says.
Then more silence.
Interesting? What the fuck?

“So, do you think you can help me find this psycho?” I ask a little too anxiously. If I were a smoker, I’d be puffing away on a pack and a half right now. Instead, I pace the hotel room back and forth with my iPhone lodged to my ear. I look out at the beautiful view of the Vancouver waterfront area.
Why isn’t Raj saying anything?
After the longest of pauses, Raj takes a deep breath.

“
Eric,” he sighs, “can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” I reply. I always hate it when someone starts off with that question.
Just ask the fucking question.
Raj clears his throat.
Come on.

“Who’ve you fucked lately and where?”

And there’s the million-dollar question, my friends.
Eric Martin, playboy to the beautiful and married women in world class cities. Who has he fucked lately? Tune in to the latest reality show about the bad boy player to the cheating wives of America.
You see, I said I told Raj everything but I didn’t exactly
.
My secret life is still
my
secret life. I haven’t told a soul what bad boy Eric does on his business trips and that’s the way I want it to remain. But now I’ve been cornered by his question. If I tell him where I’ve been and who I’ve been with, then I’d have to face the shame of the truth,
that I’m an ass.
If he knew that I disguise myself
as Dan, my deceased best friend,
then he’d know that I’m nothing but a
twisted, fucking ass.

T
he unraveling of my secret life . . . could I handle it? Am I ready to explore the depths of my wicked ways? Am I prepared to unload this ugly beast of burden that I have been carrying around with me for the past three years? Mick Jagger is screaming “Beast of Burden” in my ear.

“Why do you ask?” Is all I can
manage.

“Well, to put it to you simply . . .
sounds like this psycho, as you call her, wants you. Bad,” Raj replies. I hear him take another sip from his drink. He continues on.

“As crazy as this sounds, I’ve seen this type of obsessive behavior before. Smart stalking, I call it. The person only gives you enough clues or very little at all and then doesn’t let up. The fact that you haven’t responded to any of her attempts is pissing her off even more.”

Shit. It could be so many women.

“But, Raj, how could this psycho find me if I
didn’t give her my real name . . . and I didn’t hook up with her in Toronto?”
Whoa.
That was the most I ever divulged to anyone. Ever. Raj pauses again. It feels like a millennium until he answers again.

“Can you be so sure she didn’t follow you? Or have you followed? Traced something of yours you left behind? The possibilities are not limited to a few.”
You have no idea how ironic that last statement is. Fuck.
My head is pounding now and to ease it, I bang it against the window glass a bit harder.

“Look, Eric. Why don’t we sit and talk a
bout this once you’re back home? In the meantime, do me a favor. Save any texts, emails . . . anything. Print them out as well if you can. I’ll help you with this. You’re not alone.”

I’m not alone.
Someone’s going to help me carry this beast. And just the thought of that makes me feel a little lighter.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. Your discretion, of course, means even more to me.” I breathe a sigh of relief as I take a seat on the edge of the bed.