Beau/Dash
Beau
Late Spring, 2011
Chicago, Illinois
As I navigated through the obstacle course I’d created in my living room, I meticulously assessed the angles of the various inverted pots and pans strategically placed from my sofa to the large windows overlooking Lake Michigan. Since this game was classified as an “I win” challenge, every placement was crucial. I couldn’t fail. I knelt on the floor, becoming one with an imaginary ping-pong ball as it bounced off each pan’s bottom until the path concluded in the red Solo Cup at the end. I added another magazine to the first upside-down skillet to tilt it closer to the second pot. With a breath, I crossed my fingers that I’d arranged a perfect course.
“Brooks, you ready?” Scott asked impatiently. He had arranged a similar course in his living room in Alabama. We’d positioned our laptops, webcams active, to the side of the game to give us an unobstructed view of our opponents playing field. At the end of the course, each of us had a video recorder precariously placed on a step stool. If everything went as well as I hoped, I’d toss the ball at the start and it’d bounce off each cooking device until it landed in the cup. The first one to make it to the end won the game.
Scott and I had dived headfirst into many different challenges starting a few weeks ago for a new YouTube channel he wanted to create. Turned out, Lauren, his wife, knew about editing videos. And since I was nothing if not ready to one-up Scott at any given moment, I’d happily joined in the fun.
I took my seat at the front of the course and wiggled around until I found the best launching point. The fall colors and natural sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the camera allowed just the right amount of light to make my portion of the video look normal, or so Lauren explained.
“Hang on. I need to hydrate,” I said, grabbing a Powerade set strategically to the side. I took a long swig then grabbed my bucket of ping pong balls, placing them between my crisscrossed legs. As if I were about to play the toughest of sports, I stretched my arms and back while swiveling my neck around both directions.
The first one to successfully land a ball in the red Solo Cup was the winner.
“Start ongo,” Scott instructed. “No cheating.”
“Zip it and saygo,” I shot back, mentally gearing up for the ultimate cup-sinking showdown.
“One, two, go!” Of course, Scott played unfairly, but this wasn’t our first contest. I was prepared and tossed the first ball, watching it ricochet from one pot or pan to the next until it fell flat three-quarters of the way down the path. I recalculated the position and strength of the throw then made a slight adjustment. With my new trajectory established, the second ball was tossed. I kept going just that way, one right after another.
“Oh man,” Scott called out.
“What?” I asked, keeping my gaze locked on the ball. My effort to engage him in conversation was primarily intended to distract him from his focus.
“Ijustmissed the cup.”
I did not expect to hear that. My vision narrowed, my focus sharpened, and I continued sending the balls bouncing down the course. A slow trickle of sweat ran down my cheek. The world around me disappeared. The only sound that registered was the ping of the ball striking the bottom of the various pans. Less than halfway through my bucket, I could feel and hear exactly where the balls needed to land to make it to the cup. It was time to buckle down and get serious.
I leaned into the throw and let the ball go. I watched the zigzag the ball made all the way to the end. Driven more by instinct than careful thought, I made a small adjustment and released another ball with a little less force than before. My gaze darted back and forth until the ball landed in the cup.
“Yeah!” I exploded, shooting to my feet, jumping up and down. The remaining balls in the bucket scattered everywhere as I reveled my win. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Scott hollering and hooping in celebration with me. I was so damned proud of myself I brought forward the old dances from my youth. First, the running man. Second, the cabbage patch.
“I win, I win, I win,” I chanted as if it were my own special song. Though, I’d easily admit I wasn’t a lyrical genius, I did get my point across.
On the turn of an exaggerated swivel of my hips, I spotted Dash and his mentor and hot, older boss, Lon Blackman, standing in the entry of our living room, looking very much like an advertisement for Dolce & Gabbana. Where Dash was blond haired, and blue eyed, Lon was dark headed, dark eyed, with a perfectly tanned complexion. They appeared like the type of lawyers that seemed ready to walk into a courtroom, and kick ass at any given moment.
In contrast, I wore my normal weekend attire, vintage athletic shorts from my college days and a well-worn T-shirt. Since I’d had Friday off, two days worth of facial hair caused an itch atmy chin, and my prized Texas Rangers ball cap turned backward on my head completed my ensemble. The cap didn’t really fit properly due to the shoulder-length disheveled hair that I hadn’t cut in years.
No question, if I didn’t look like an ass, I felt like one. Which wasn’t an unusual feeling with ninety percent of my interactions with Dash’s colleagues. I halted dead in my tracks, the happiness of moments ago drained off me at the same time as my hands fell to my sides. Scott must have taken in the scene. His laughter came louder.
“We’re creating a video for YouTube,” I said, not sure I’d even told Dash about Scott’s new channel. I gestured to my obstacle course as if that would help clarify the situation. The brief moment of embarrassment that crossed Dash’s brow had my shoulders drooping. “Scott, I’ll send you the video.”
“No, don’t break the connection. I wanna see how this plays out,” Scott shot out seconds before I shut the lid.
“I wasn’t able to reach you,” Dash said. “Lon and I are having lunch with clients and their significant others. We’d like you to join us.” His hands were clasped together, the grip tight, another sign that I had let him down again.
“What’s all this, Beau?” Lon asked in the cultured way he spoke, shrugging off his suit coat, stepping farther into the living room. With a toss, the jacket landed over the back of an armchair. The entire time he surveyed the course, undoing his buttons to roll each sleeve up. I quickly lifted my hands in surrender and mouthedI’m sorryto Dash.
“The goal is to get a ball into the cup at the end. You toss from here,” I explained, pointing to the start position. As if I thought he was too dumb to understand, I scooped up a ball and sent it bouncing its way down. This time it came close to the cup but missed. Lon came to my side, lifting the material of his slacks to squat and survey the course.
“Fascinating,” he remarked earnestly, casually tossing his tie over his shoulder. He gathered a few nearby balls and sat on the couch in front of the course. My gaze darted to Dash. His stare fixed on me, the disappointment easy to read. Dash had worked so damned hard and climbed the firm’s ranks so swiftly that now he was an associate to a senior partner: Lon. If Dash continued this momentum, he would likely make junior partner before too much longer. Apparently, it was a meteoric rise, unprecedented in Dash’s circles. Yet, he’d managed to do it.
I felt a sense of pride for him and tried my damnedest to be a suitable partner, but he and I both knew I was failing. I was never able to truly settle into the fancy places he took me, or be ready at a moment’s notice to join him. Dash worked tirelessly from morning until late at night, seven days a week, while I found myself in bed these days at about eight o’clock. Many times, my day began when Dash’s day was winding down.
