RUGBY KISSES

Excerpt

Jerry Maxwell, the owner of the Palamino Saloon, greeted me with a smile as he wheeled in a keg. His two-hundred-dollar investment as the sponsor of our rugby team guaranteed that a vast quantity of beer was bound to be consumed, promising at least a five-fold return of his investment over the course of our season. We were more than happy to fulfill our part of the bargain by drinking heavily and often in this establishment.

Not surprisingly, only six of my teammates showed up for the meeting, and they were gathered at the five tables fastidiously arranged around the “big screen” TV. The only thing missing from the pout on our team manager’s face was anything resembling a sense of humor. He was the mother-hen type, always disappointed and routinely ignored. He was seated next to Mr. Peabody, who was observing Hurley in his element. The Old Chap was working on a cocktail waitress who was granting him a wide berth, his reputation having preceded him.

“Grab a beer, Conor,” said Mr. Peabody.

Clearly, a good idea since I was in that netherworld between five beers and the rest of my life, and the mescaline showed promise of kicking in. Peabody was one of my favorite teammates. He was a mild-mannered certified public accountant during the day, doing business as Al Stockton. We called him Mr. Peabody partly because of the black, horn-rimmed glasses he preferred, but mostly because of the stoic expression he shared with the cartoon character. He was a good-humored drinking partner and one of the few people on our team capable of carrying on a conversation that wasn’t sports-exclusive.

That aside, Peabody’s demeanor on and off the field bore little resemblance to the man who lived and died by the balance sheet during the day. He was a party animal, a force on the rugby field, and an excellent teammate who had bailed me out of trouble on more than one occasion.

On the screen, the All-Blacks methodically advanced the ball against the Springboks. The match originated in South Africa and featured a single-engine plane that circled the stadium dropping anti-apartheid literature. More of my teammates shuffled in, and we were soon transfixed by the fury and athleticism of professional rugby.

As the tension of the game amplified, so did the effect of the mescaline. The drug was more than willing to match the excitement on the pitch with infusions of color and energy that surged through my bloodstream and had me rocking backward on my chair. As a military helicopter attempted to drive the airplane from the field, the camera swung wildly between the drama in the sky and on the field.

I was suddenly desperate for fresh air, but my back was pinned against the wall by the table, and my exit was blocked on either side by my teammates. A waitress slowly approached our table, her slender arms burdened with five pitchers of beer. She bent over and disappeared into a sea of heads and shoulders, then emerged swinging. Nobody was surprised to see that The Old Chap was the object of her wrath.

“You sonofabitch! Keep your fucking hands to yourself or I’ll cut them off at the elbows!” she howled at The Old Chap, who feigned shock and disbelief that he could be accused of such a thing.

“Old bean,” he said in my direction while smiling wickedly at the waitress. “If this ends up in court, I’ll be calling you as a witness. That harlot assaulted me.”

“For the usual fee?” I inquired.

The club owner and a couple of his bouncers arrived, and everybody stood up from the table at the same time. With some fancy footwork and a spin move, I landed at the front door of the club, where the cool evening breeze and some deep breathing performed miracles on my blood pressure and paranoia.

After a couple of spins around the parking lot, I made my way back to our table and nearly collided with Mr. Peabody coming out of the men’s bathroom. He was rubbing his nose and taking in short snorts through his nostrils. I was certain he was medicating what was unquestionably an allergy problem and gave him a knowing smile.

“Come here, I need to talk to you.” Peabody’s beefy arm hooked around the back of my neck as he led me down a hallway.

“You know that cocktail waitress The Old Chap felt up? She’s the owner’s niece. Maxwell is furious. He wanted to call the cops.”

My tongue felt like it was made of lead, and the wallpaper behind Peabody’s head was shapeshifting.

“You gotta get him out of here, Conor,” he said.

I needed to tell Peabody a great many things. The blame for the incident rested squarely on the gorgeous legs of the owner’s niece. Hurley could not resist a shapely calf; everybody was aware of this. Weren’t they? My mouth opened, but the words were interrupted by a shiny spot on Peabody’s skull that refracted light like a disco ball.

“I’ll try and smooth things over, but The Old Chap needs to disappear before the whole team gets 86’d.”

This was a new low, even for The Old Chap. Both of us were old hands at getting thrown out of bars, but the Palamino was our home base. The surest way I knew to get Hurley to stay all night somewhere was to suggest that somebody wanted him to leave. The trick would be to allow The Old Chap to come up with the idea on his own; a dicey business under the best of circumstances.

I approached the table with no idea how to pull this off. The words of Bullwinkle the Moose came to mind: “Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.”

By this time, the mescaline was in full gear and performing some unsolicited magic with both light and depth perception. The big screen TV had become a blur of color and light, and the mixture was enchanting. The pre-recorded match had a sinister aura about it, and a palpable tension was evident in the crowd, who seemed fully prepared for violence.

A tray of dishes dropped behind us, causing me to jump involuntarily. My reaction, coupled with the fact that my eyes started to travel in two separate directions, in a chameleon-like manner, was not lost on The Old Chap. He was studying me intensely. He picked up my glass and filled it from the pitcher, then he rotated the glass in front of my face. I was compelled to shut my eyes for a moment—there were things going on inside that glass that needed to be addressed.

“Other than this fine nectar,” he began as he spun the beer glass between his index finger and thumb, “what substances have we been putting in our system?”

Hurley avoided buying drugs but was always willing to share if the opportunity presented itself.

We and our, I thought to myself. He was talking to me as if I were a patient. I wondered if he knew something about me that I didn’t.

“Black-tar, oregano?” I bluffed.

“Any particular brand?” he raised.

“The brand your friend Mark sells. The package it comes in is beautiful!” I recalled.

“Ah, my friend Mark,” The Old Chap mused. “Remind me to leave my boot in his ass the next time I see him. So, do we have any left?”

“No, we seem to be out, Doctor,” I told him.

Unlike Mr. Peabody, who could afford to be gracious about sharing his stash, I was fucking poor and extremely territorial. Hurley was not about to be put off that easily. He suggested we take a trip to the Jackpot Club and see if our mutual friend had some leftovers. This proposition solved my immediate problem, and the quicker we got out of the bar, the better. Now, a new problem surfaced—any meeting between Mark and The Old Chap was bound to be problematic. My boss, Phil, frowned on fighting, and any involvement, even indirectly, could mean my ass. My job sucked violently, but it paid the bills.

I was concerned about driving anywhere at that point. The thought of returning to my small apartment held no attraction. Given my current state, I would be climbing up the walls in about fifteen minutes. I struck a deal with Hurley. The Old Chap would receive his mescaline provided he took me home at a decent hour, preferably prior to four a.m. The tape finally ended, and one of our teammates offered to cue it up once again. Hurley and I passed on the encore and thanked our benefactors for the educational film. Jerry Maxwell was glaring at The Old Chap as we exited the club.

Hurley pretended not to notice.