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JAROMIR
“Just leave them at the door, Ma!” I holler for the third time, tucked between the corner wall and twin-sized bed of my childhood room and current prison. Well, maybe not prison. The self-imposed prison of my claustrophobic hometown is more like it.
What? Laying low gets complicated when you’re in the news. And it’s not like I have a lot of options when the press knows all my favorite stomping grounds, which does not include my current location of Hallorann, Oregon. AKA, Nowheresville, USA.
So essentially, a prison.
“No good will come from reading trolls, son!” Ma’s deep voice chides on the opposite side of the door, still decorated with some of my favorite professional hockey players and idols from yesteryear.
I try not to look any of them in the eye as I shuffle to grab the handle. I should know by now what happens on Lake Huron stays on Lake Huron — but only until the cell phones are out. I should also have known, technically, that the wave runner I was on was not my own. But after eight drinks and nine hours of sun, black and purple look a lot alike. Especially in the middle of the night.
“I’m not reading trolls, Ma. I’m reading their comments!” I flinch at the admission, then make sure the lock on the door is flipped.
Ma has the tendency to barge in with food, sans the knocking. In her mind, knocking is for strangers, not mothers. In my mind, knocking is for everyone who isn’t Jaromir-embarrassing middle name I will not divulge-Fletcher.
“Their comments are ignorant, son! I tell you this last night,” she barks, her light Russian accent coming through like it always does. On any other occasion, I’d remember the moment for the next time I’m being interviewed. The fans love family stories.
What the fans do not love is seeing their favorite center coming to a full stop only after they’ve made it on land. Or in my case, a retired couple’s newly renovated deck.
“I know, but I make my own decisions!” I throw up my hands. It’s not what I mean to do or say. I’m pushing thirty, not trying to negotiate my after-school activities for the coming spring semester.
“You make wrong decision reading trolls. Trolls always jealous of tight buns. This is not first time I tell you!” Ma raps on the door with something, probably one of her sky-blue knitting needles. But better my door than my chest, which she has a habit of poking when trying to make her point.
“I’m just trying to take a nap,” I lie.
I’m really in the middle of two separate reaction videos of my debacle. I scratch my neck with my right hand, then adjust my sling. I fractured my collarbone in the fall, which isn’t necessarily a bone a doctor can set. Though they can and will ask for an autograph while X-raying you. That I know.
“You don’t listen to late night either.” My nostrils flare at her demand. What was said on late-night TV?
“Yes, Ma. Going back to bed!” I say the last part through a false yawn.
I can’t believe the league is punishing me for what the trolls and late-night hosts can do all on their own. I don’t need to clean up my act and give back. I don’t need to worry about what this will do to my reputation. And the ultimatum from my agent was just the icing on the cake. What I need to worry about is coming to terms with the fact my ass will never be as smooth as it once was, not with the gash I’m rocking.
I was nude. Very nude. And while the Wilkensens won’t soon forget the night of their fortieth wedding anniversary, nor will the many guests staying over after the festivities, it would have been worse had they not been season ticket holders. So there’s that.
“Stay off butt! Sleep on side!” I hear her amble back down the hall and heave a sigh of relief. I know I should heed her advice, I do…
But when half the internet is talking about your drunken night of partying, it’s hard not to eat up what they have to say. Even when what they have to say is riddled with spelling errors that even I can spot.Especiallywhen there are spelling errors that even I can spot.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table, and I roll my eyes because I know who it is. My agent, Kenneth.
What am I telling them we’ve decided on?his simple text reads. I smirk at the word ‘we.’ As if he’ll be doing anything but collecting his ten percent like he always does. Ken’s not a bad guy, but he’s not the one being asked to dedicate the time he should be spending convalescing to looking good in the public eye.
I don’t want to pick up trash on the side of the highway. Or scrub graffiti off some park bench. I’m not a criminal.I send the text despite the fact it’s not technically what he asked. I haven’t been doing anything but draining my cell battery since I woke up.
Anything you want to do? It doesn’t have to be trash-related. Go mentor some teens or something. Find a youth organization.I roll my eyes at the idea. Yeah, kids like me. Why wouldn’t they? But troubled kids? Do they like anyone?
“Son! Phone is not bed!” Mother slaps a hand on one of my bedroom windows, and I jump. She’s holding a plate of cold cuts and cheese, with a baguette under the crook of her sleeve. My mouth waters despite itself.
“This is work, Ma,” I explain as I open the window with one hand. As soon as I do, she waves the plate under my nose while tossing the baguette onto my bed.
“Who works on empty stomach?” She takes a slice of rolled salami and slips it into her mouth. She points to it, as if the reason I’m not eating is because I may have forgotten how. “You will feel right like rain when you full.”
“Thanks, Ma,” I offer. It’s just easier to let her think she’s helping. As the savory smells on the plate hit my nostrils, I take her advice and not sarcastically. Cold cuts go down no matter how terrible your life is going. “It’s good.”
“I know,” she says, waving to the neighbor next door, then pointing into the house. “My son is home. Rethinking life and seeing his mama.” She points to herself as I grit my teeth. How many times do I have to tell her I’m lying low?
