“That bad?” Danny asked.
“Worse.”
We left the house and Quinton and went on a ride. Danny stared in disbelief as I told him the story. Danny admitted a bit sheepishly, “I knew he was crazy, but even I didn’t expect that.”
“If you knew he was crazy why did you let me go out with him?”
“Thought he might have changed. Plus, I didn’t think you’d want to go out with him.”
“Why?” I said. “He’s my age, okay looking, works in finance, tamed his wild side with the death of his father. He sounded—”
Danny interrupted me with a roaring laugh and said, “He’s at least thirty-nine.”
“What? He said he was twenty-eight.”
“He’s not. Four years ago he raced in the thirty-five-plus age category.”
“Damn, being honest was one of the only things he had going for him.”
“He’s not in finance either, unless you have a really broad definition of finance.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a loan shark or something. I think he repossesses cars.”
“I thought you had to be tough for that job.”
“He got the job through his sister-in-law.”
“Do you know if his father is actually dead?” I asked.
“It’s possible, who knows?”
After the morning ride, hours later, Quinton was still on my doorstep. I started getting ready for work, which consisted of taking a shower then blow-drying my hair while I read the newspaper. I can be ready to go anywhere in twenty minutes. On my way out, Quinton was still there. His car was blocking mine in, so I couldn’t move my car unless I woke him. But waking him inevitably meant talking to him, so I opted to ride my bike to work. I put on fresh cycling clothes and packed a bag of work clothes.
When I got to work, I realized that while I remembered to pack a matching necklace and shoes, I forgot to bring a bra and underwear. The air conditioning at my office tends to vacillate between ten and fifteen degrees below freezing, so this was a problem. I would have to avoid David more than usual throughout the day.
Around 2:00 p.m., Quinton texted me, “gr8 time-plans 2nite?”
The mail man probably woke him up. I ignored the text. An hour later, Quinton called. I answered the phone, apologized for not returning his text, and told him I couldn’t meet tonight. He told me that he had an amazing time and couldn’t wait to see me again. Clearly I needed to be more assertive.
“Quinton, how old are you?”
“Forty-one.”
“You told me you were twenty-eight.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. I said I was twenty-eight and you said, ‘me too.’”
“Oh, I was kidding. I thought you knew that. Are you mad about that?”
“No, but the six gin and tonics, five beers, two joints and sixteen hours sleeping on my doorstep freaked me out a bit.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“Yes you did. Trust me, my memory is working better than yours today.”
“So, is that it? You don’t want to see me anymore?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry. I’m sure I’ll see you around on the bike though.”
“I can’t believe this,” he said, and I think he was serious.
“I have another call, I’ll talk to you later,” I said. A white, but necessary, lie.
The next day, Quinton called me again. Stupidly, I answered.
“Hey, what are you doing Friday night?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have tickets to a monster truck rally.” Excitement and optimism were palpable in his voice.
“Quinton, you’re a nice guy, but I told you yesterday, it won’t work out between us. As an aside, I have no interest in monster truck rallies.”
“I thought about what you said, and I really appreciate it,” said Quinton, suddenly serious. “I know it must have been hard for you to admit to me that you think I have a problem. It’s great that you care about me enough to share that with me. Anyway, I took your advice, and decided to get help. I feel better already and I’m sure that by Friday, the problem will be gone.”
“Your problem cannot be fixed in four days. It’s great that you’re working on it, but I wasn’t telling you to get help so we could date.”
“Why did you tell me then?” he asked.
“Just my helpful nature I guess.”
“I think it’s because you care about me. Can’t you just give me another chance?”
“No. I’m really not interested,” I said.
“Will you think about it?”
“No.”
“Will you reconsider?” This was becoming worse than a telemarketing call.
“Reconsidering it is a lot like thinking about it or giving you another chance, Quinton. My answer is still no.”
“I can’t believe this. We had such a good time.”
“I’m going to the gym now. Bye, Quinton.”
Holy shit he was dense! Even I didn’t think I was worth the level of humiliation he’d just put himself through.
* * *
I wore everything I owned for the ride with Danny the next morning. Even though we were well into January, it was the first real Florida cold spell of the season. In Florida, this means the temperature drops below thirty degrees in the morning and only goes up to sixty-five during the day. When this happens, the weather channel takes a break from predicting next year’s hurricane season in order to provide minute-by-minute details on the chance of survival for each Florida orange against the deep freeze. I have bad circulation in my hands and feet, so if it dips below forty-five degrees, I wear three sets of gloves, wool socks, toe warmers and two sets of shoe covers called “booties.” I also wore a thermal snow cap instead of a helmet. When given the choice between dying and being cold, I’d chose being cold every time. However, my winter wardrobe never reflected this choice.”
Danny looked me up and down and said, “You’re going to lose your mime hands if you wear gloves and long sleeves.”
One of the negatives about cycling in Florida is the sun. It is inevitable that Florida cyclists will have horrible tan lines. When I ride, I wear a cycling uniform, referred to as a “kit,” which is essentially a short-sleeve jersey and spandex shorts with a padded chamois covering the crotch. The rest of my get-up consists of ankle socks, gloves, a helmet and glasses. I look ridiculous naked. My legs from mid-thigh to ankles, as well as my arms from biceps to wrists, are practically black, while my ass, stomach and back are white as snow. I have a tan line midway across my forehead and around my eyes, where my helmet and glasses rest. The best part about the tan is the hands. I wear gloves when I ride so that I can grip the gears and brakes while sweating my ass off. My hands are white up to my wrist, where I have a sharp line. It really does look like I’m wearing white mime gloves at all times.
“Winter’s almost over, the tan lines will be back with a vengeance soon enough.”
“Is that all you’re wearing?” Danny asked with a hint of sarcasm.
In addition to the gloves and booties, I wore three long-sleeve shirts, a vest and leg warmers. Danny wore shorts and a long-sleeve cycling jersey. After making fun of me, he froze the entire ride. I laughed at him, so he got in front of me and shot a snot rocket right into my face. It was cold, so he had a lot of snot saved up.
“Asshole!” I screamed.
“Sorry,” he said, as he swished water in his mouth then spit it into my face. “That should clean off the snot.”
“Do you have to be such a gentleman all the time?” I asked, wiping the snot and spit off my face.
The morning ride on Davis Island was always beautiful and today was no exception. We saw the sunrise as we pedaled past the yacht club like clockwork on our first of five loops around the east side of the Island. On the second, we passed crew boats training in the channel between Davis Island and Harbour Island. On the third, we saw dolphins playing near the yacht club. The fourth lap also took my breath away. A little boy kissed his mother goodbye, hopped on his bike without a care in the world and pedaled directly into a curb. This sent him sailing four feet into the air until he collided with the post of a stop sign. We paused for a moment, feeling both sympathy and regret that we didn’t capture it for YouTube. Then, we started pedaling again because there wasn’t any blood and his mom seemed to have it under control. Our luck broke on the fifth trip around the Island. Instead of sunrises, boats, dolphins and clumsy kids, we were treated to a crap-load of dirt in our eyes and mouths.
I moved my glasses to rub my eyes and said, “The person who invented the leaf-blower should be shot.”
“No shit,” Danny said. “It is literally designed to transport debris from your yard onto your neighbor’s property.”
“Fuck their property, my eyes are burning and I’m crunching on dirt.”
Danny sprayed his water bottle into my face.
“Jackass. It’s freezing out here.”
“My bad, I was just trying to fix your eyes. You have snot, spit, dirt and leaves in there; I thought you couldn’t possibly see without me spraying stuff into your face.”
“Of course you were,” I said, as I unscrewed the bottle top of mine and splashed my entire water bottle, which was now freezing cold, over Danny’s head.
“I guess I had that coming,” he stated nonchalantly. “Hey, how’s the pregnancy thing going?” Danny asked, hopefully calling it even and ending the water fight.
“Great,” I said. “I plan to go from plump to fat soon and start wearing real maternity clothes.”
“Do you have any?”
“My friend Jessica just had a baby. I’m going to ask to borrow hers.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“The truth. I’ve known her since sixth grade, she won’t turn me in.”
“You’ll never make it the full nine months, too many people know. You’re going to get busted.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t have.
“What if Jessica gets mad that you’re abusing the system and turns you in?”
“Why would she do that? It’s not like I’m faking being handicapped. She had maternity leave and got a little cherub of a baby boy out of it. She’s as happy as a pig in shit. I’m not taking anything away from that.”
* * *
I met up with Jessica at the Westshore Mall, halfway between her house and my office. She was already at the restaurant when I got there and was easy to spot because she had a stroller obstructing all of the foot traffic in the restaurant. I eyed Jessica to see how close we were in size since I’d be wearing her clothes for the next four months. Not surprisingly, nothing had changed since middle school. She was still six inches taller than me. Wearing her clothes, I’d be pulling up my pants and walking on them for the next four months. Jessica looked tired. Poor sucker was using her maternity leave to care for an infant at all hours of the day.
She spent the lunch squeezing her son’s chubby legs and arms like a stress ball with one hand and picking at her salad with the other. She found my pregnancy scheme funny, but crazy.
“So, basically you’re faking a pregnancy for vacation?”
“No. I’ll enjoy the break, but I’m doing it so that I can qualify and compete in this three-week race.”
“Why do you like cycling so much? It seems so boring.”
“Says the girl who has the attention span for yoga.”
Jessica said, “I love yoga, you should try it. You’d probably like it.”
“Can you win at yoga?”
“No.”
“Then why would I do it?” I asked.
“Forget yoga. Why cycling? Do you get a runner’s high, or cyclists’ high or something when you win?”
“Sometimes. I sometimes even get it when I just go out to ride for fun. But it’s not that. It’s hard to describe. Sometimes, I just ride my bike, enjoying the weather and socializing. When I run errands on my bike or ride to work, I feel like a kid with a mission instead of a cyclist. In the summer, I play meteorologist while I ride during the afternoon thundershowers. I look at the sky and try to ride around the massive afternoon storm that’s going to hit the entire Tampa Bay area at some point. Sometimes it works and the storm clouds never catch me, though they’re nipping at my back wheel the entire ride. Other times, I get hit right in the thick of it and I’m riding for my life trying to avoid lightning by crouching as low on my bike as possible. I love racing too, and group rides. Any competition really. But I also love training and just spinning around easy.”
“Hello!” Jessica said as she waved her hands in my face.
“Sorry. John and Jason always tell me not to talk about cycling because it bores the shit out of people, but you asked.”
“First, it was kind of a sarcastic or rhetorical question. I didn’t know whether the runner’s high was real or that cyclists got one too. Second, John and Jason are right. Third, who are you and what have you done with Jenna Rosen?”
“What?” I said, now embarrassed.
“Sorry, I’m just not used to you talking passionately and spewing rainbows out of your ass,” she said, cupping her infant’s ears even though he was six months away from talking.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well it was definitely out of character. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it almost seems like you give a shit,” said Jessica earnestly.
“I do. In fact, I not only give a shit, I care, as I do about everything that affects me.”
“I know that deep down, you care about things, but I much prefer to hang out with your dark shallow side. I get my fair share of sentimentality at home with the kid. Quick, say something cynical.”
“Sorry, other than faking the miracle of birth to get vacation time, I’m out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What did you do last night?”
“Grabbed a drink in Ybor City.”
“Great, you must have pissed someone off there, so you have to have a story.”
“Oh yeah. A bum asked me for some money and I said, ‘Sure, can you break a hundred dollar bill?’”
“Did you really?”
“No, bums in Ybor scare me, but I thought about doing it,” I said.
“So, have you slept with that tall drink of water who worships you yet?” Jessica asked.
I blushed. My life would be so much simpler if I wanted to sleep with and marry Danny. “No, I’m not sleeping with Danny. We’re just friends.”
“Why?” Jessica asked incredulously. “He’s totally into you.”
“No shit,” I responded.