Part 8


As hard as he tried not to, Justin couldn't help glancing upward at the stark red-on-black digital clock on the wall when he finished stretching his right leg in racquetball room number 12 at the health club in Venice that evening. It was exactly 8:09, and he was still the only person present and accounted for at this previously scheduled "appointment."

Nine whole minutes. Whoopee. No big deal, he told himself several times.

Nine minutes that meant all of nothing. But still. The nine little millenniums those minutes felt like weren't doing a hell of a lot to ease his already anxious state of psyche.

Great. Just fucking great. Now I'm being stood up by somebody who doesn't even KNOW me, for a simple little sports lesson. How much WORSE luck can the damn gods and demons crap all over me anyway?

When he'd arrived (promptly at 7:50), he'd been glad he'd consulted Lance one final time before he'd left the office and asked the all-important question of whether to wear his street clothes in to the place and then change or to come dressed for action in shorts already and bring casual things to put on afterward. As usual, Lance had been prepared for even the most challenging of Justin's compulsive anal nature. Even if he was in full snarky mode by the end of the day.

(Deep, heavy sigh through phone line) "Damn, J. Do you think of every little thing or what?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

"I'm married. I don't have to trip like that anymore, man."

"But what if you did, Lance? What if you didn't have Jesse and you were in my shoes."

(Small, breathy chuckle) "I'd be renting out all the extra space in those big-ass fuckers if I was in your shoes, J. That's what."

(Annoyed, petulant huff) "Lance, damnit. Be serious. This is for real, man."

"Well, at least you're not still babbling on about calling the dude and breaking the date."

"It's not a date, Lance. How many MORE times do I have to keep say-"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Sure, Justin. Okay. You're weirding out over when exactly to change your damn clothes. And it's nothing but a workout at a gym. With a guy you already know is sexy as fuck. Right. Obsess much?"

"Just advise on the question at hand and shut up. Smartass."

"Wear your regular duds in there, babe. It'll make you feel more comfortable, less self-conscious. And God knows you need that right now. You can change inside. See, even if it's not totally proper etiquette to do it that way, you're excused from extreme dorkwad-ness - well, at least for tonight. You're the new kid on the block, and you don't know any better. How's that?"

(Thoughtful hum of a sigh) "You could be a genius, my friend."

"And the only one of the two of us who has a real man. For now."

(Low moan and silent eye roll) "Thanks for the reminder, Lance. I came within a light year of forgetting that world-renown fact."

"You've got to pinch CJ's arse tonight when he wiggles it close enough to you, J. Don't waste time and let that one slip through your fingers. I saw him. He's hot."

(Beautiful wrinkled-nose smirk) "It's JC. His name, you know. Think you could get that much right?"

"Well, whatEVer. How does it look - his name, you know - drawn in a big, poofy, curvy heart under your name? 'Cause I know you've been practicing."

"Fuck off, Lance."

"I'm just saying. If you bang him tonight, I'd better be the damn first bitch to know, Justin. I'm so serious."

"Bye, Lance. Thanks for the input. Go home to your 'real man' and get you some."

Justin had been grateful, yet again, to have Lance's reliable worldly insight. He'd calmly (at least on the exterior) strolled through the double glass doors in his jeans and yellow Polo button-down, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and his black Nike bag over his shoulder. The "tit-job" receptionist had shown no hints whatsoever of recognition from the night before when he'd stepped up to the desk and signed in, and he'd been thankful for that too.

"Hi, Justin! I'm Jennifer! Welcome to Trinity! Your first time with us?"

"No……….Er, I mean yes. First time ever," he'd stammered. "First time to this location anyway."

"Cool!" she'd flashed on high beam. "Here's a pass key for one of the lockers in the men's changing area. Everything you need should be in there. Give me a holler, like, if it's not. And JC said to meet him in 12 at eight. It's one flight up. 'Kay?"

"Great. I think I'm all set," Justin had responded robotically, his stomach back-flipping over on itself the closer 8:00 neared. "And thanks a ton."

"Hehe. That's what he always says."

"Pardon me?"

"'Thanks a ton.' That's what JC always says," she had giggled.

(Olympics-worthy back-flips from spastic lower abdomen)

Now he waited on this sparse, echo-prone court in the Hilfiger shirt and shorts he'd purchased and pre-washed the night before, swinging and stretching and trying not to pace about nervously or stare at the glowing red numbers on the clock. 8:13 p.m. And 40 seconds.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

In mid-sweeping motion, JC halted in his tracks, knees braced at half-standing crouch and arms bent at wide post-swing of the powerful racquet against the small ball that was now ricocheting off the hardwood wall that faced him and careening into the expanse of room behind him. Something had told him to stop and check his watch, the one snug around his left wrist via a thick, black leather band.

8:17 p.m.

Fuck! Seriously? Fuck!

He wheeled around furiously, spliced the air with his racquet again, and cursed in a sizzling hiss. He was late. WAY late to an hour-long session with a newbie. The one named Justin.

More so than his timepiece, he cursed himself, cursed his internal clock, for keeping such shitty "real" time for him and for being so fucking untrustworthy.

8:17. No, 8:18 now. Really?

"I know I wouldn't hire my dead ass again if it couldn't get to the right damn court on time for the first damn lesson," he grumbled to himself and jogged over to where his bag lay on the floor. "Christ. How pathetic is that? Nice going for new business, Chasez. Way to make a good first impression. Ah, yeah. Nice fucking going."

His 7:00 person hadn't shown up at all. Hadn't even called to say why. So JC - feeling a little too edgy and hyped-up to seek out another quick, time-killing match with a member he knew from down the hall - had hung around in room five knocking the ball back and forth off the rear wall all by himself, practicing wicked serves and underhand swings and tricky sidestep moves over and over, routinely and almost mindlessly.

The swift-paced physical activity, like always, was oddly relaxing and calming for him. So relaxing and calming that he'd lost track of time altogether. He hadn't even taken his steeled concentration off the ball long enough to peak at the digital clock above the court.

"Dumb. Ass," he hissed again.

Pissed off at himself, he stooped down and snatched up his half-full liter of bottled water and slung the bag's strap over his shoulder again. Yanking a small towel from one of the side pockets in the leather, he wiped at the warm perspiration he could feel trickling down the back of his neck.

"Screwed-up way to start off a new working relationship. Just fuck me running. I wouldn't blame the dude if he writes my ass off and finds himself a real personal trainer for this damn sport."

If he sprinted down the hallway and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time - AND if he was lucky - maybe, just maybe, this Justin guy would still be around, waiting patiently. Or probably more like impatiently. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't yet said to himself, "To hell with this crap," and booked on out of there. Maybe there was still a chance he wasn't gone. Not just yet.

JC flung open the door and huffed a full, deep sigh. He felt lucky. He'd been feeling lucky all day. Yeah, that's what had been out of the ordinary this entire ordinary day. That's what had been unusual, atypical. Lady Luck or fate or fortune or something mysterious and higher up had been on his side, urging him on and whispering warm vibes in his ear. He recognized it now. He was feeling lucky.

Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't fucked things up completely. Maybe all wasn't lost, like he'd been lost in his head a few minutes ago and let valuable time rush right the hell by. Maybe he could still salvage a little out of the situation. As he headed out down the hallway in a fast-paced trot, something pushy and forceful told him it was certainly worth a try. Hurry.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

Justin sat down on one of the courtside benches and bent over to retie a shoelace. He was all stretched out and warmed up. And starting to sweat, which he hadn't planned to do tonight without actually playing some racquetball.

Hey. Look at the time. 8:21. Hmm.

There wasn't a whole lot more he could do to occupy himself in this empty room all alone, and it had already crossed his mind that he should just leave. To save face, mostly, and not look like such a desperate dumbass loser who'd wait around forever if necessary.

One had to have standards for one's self, right? Even in simple matters such as this one, right? Or was there, like, a big book somewhere that told one the proper length of time to wait for something or someone in certain situations? Was there? If so, where the hell was it?

Something must have happened to JC the racquetball guy, Justin had tried to convince himself. An emergency must have come up unexpectedly, and he wasn't able to phone and cancel. That had to be it. Something unavoidable. Yeah. That.

Shit like that happens to people every day of life, doesn't it? Of course, it does. And, 99% of the time, it fucking happens to me. Thanks so much, fate. You bitch.

While he leaned over double for one shoe, he decided to go ahead and adjust the lace of the other one too. That would take - oh - about 12 more seconds of all this wasted time. Hmm, maybe 15 whole seconds if he farted around with his fingers and did it slowly. By then, if he still didn't have another warm body in here to play this damn game with him like he came here to do, he'd pick up and go. He'd have to. He was out of alternatives. And he'd given about all of the benefit-if-the-doubt he had to give.

So much for taking steps to turn yourself around and get your ass out of the social slump it's been in for way too long, Timberlake. So much for stumbling on something that actually interests you and going for it. So much for anticipating……….Just fuck it and forget about it. Move on. 'Cause, see, maybe it wasn't supposed to happen tonight after all. Maybe you got your signals twisted up. Get your shit and scram. You can drop your business card off with that Ditzy Chick at the front desk……….Fuck it. Hit the road. It's not going on for you tonight, man. Just try not to look too disappointed when you track through the lobby. Smile like it's nothing. 'Cause that's probably what it would've turned out to be anyway. Nothing. Just your luck, man.

Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his eyes up toward the clock on the wall one more time.

8:23 p.m.



next

Email: whatweallwishfor@yahoo.com