The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel Read Free Book Online

made him happy, as well as his supervisors, the doctors, and now, perhaps, Victoria.
    Behind the glass partition Victoria’s eyes widened. She sprang out of her seat and disappeared, which confused Morris. Then the door to the lobby burst open, and she charged him with outstretched arms, blaring, “You are the best! Gimme a hug, Morris Feldstein!”
    Morris refused to do many things in public. Hugging was near the top of the list. Morris didn’t do hugs with strangers. They were too complicated. They involved excessive motion and calibration. Too many things could go wrong. Limbs moving in all directions. Uncertain where his arms were supposed to go, or whose head went where, or what body parts could come into contact with the other person’s body parts. And when two bodies are that close, there’s no room for error.
    So when Victoria rushed toward him, it was as if he was watching a highway collision in slow motion. Morris braced for impact, his face screwing into a tortured grimace, his arms reflexively rising to protect his chest, his fingers locked around the Mets tickets as if he was clutching a football that he might fumble. Victoria wrapped her arms around Morris and pulled him against her. So powerfully that it forced an anxious oooohhhh from his mouth; so close to her thathe felt her chest against his and smelled a fresh lemon scent in her hair. Morris’s arms felt like steel beams as he extended them around her. And he robotically patted her on the back, as if consoling her at a funeral.
    She drew back and stared at the tickets. Then her lips sank and her eyes grew sad.
    â€œOh,” she whispered.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWell, it’s just that—I guess I never told you. I’m divorced, Morris Feldstein.” Her eyelids twitched and she looked at the floor.
    â€œI didn’t know, Victoria. I’m sorry.”
    â€œOh, don’t be sorry,” Victoria chuckled, but Morris detected the slightest trace of bitterness. “It’s better this way. I mean, it took me eighteen years to figure out that Jerry—that’s my ex—was no good. But now I’ve-started-my-new-life-and-I-just-hope-he’s-happy-with-that-slut-he-met-at-the-pizza-place-because-the-two-of-them-deserve-each-other.”
    Morris blinked.
    â€œIt’s just that, to be honest, Morris Feldstein, I haven’t been to a Mets game since the divorce. Jerry and I used to go all the time. Of course, we sat in the nosebleed section because he was such a cheap bastard. Anyway, I don’t know who I could go with. At the last minute like this.” She scrunched the corners of her mouth and her nose twitched. “Unless . . . I mean, are you going to go?”
    Going to a Mets game with Victoria had never occurred to Morris. Even when Victoria and two Mets tickets were staring him in the face. “No. They’re for you,” he said.
    Victoria looked at him strangely, as if he just didn’t get it, which he didn’t. And she shrugged with a giggle. “You know what, I bet Doctor K would go. I’ll ask him.”
    Only later, after Morris arrived home to the smell of fresh kosher deli and a quick greeting from Rona, only when he was ensconced in his RoyaLounger 8000 watching the highlights of the prior weekendof Mets games, did he wonder if Victoria was suggesting that they go to the game together. And even though that realization was about eight hours too late, it made Morris feel something new and strange.
    Maybe he wasn’t such a schlub after all. No Rock Hudson, mind you. But not so bad after all.

THE MATCHMAKER
    WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2004
    â€œU ccchh. I hate this day,” Victoria D’Amico thought the next morning as she pulled her car into the parking lot of the Roslyn Medical Arts Building. And the reason for this departure from her usual good cheer was in the passenger seat, right next to her.
    Morris’s Mets tickets. Unused from the