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

Doctor K.”
    He cleared his throat, a signal of more to come.
    â€œSo . . . how was the Mets game?”
    Ucccchhh. He had to ask. Bad enough I didn’t go, but now my pathetic little life has to be his business . “I stayed home. Wasn’t in the mood.”
    â€œStayed home? By yourself?”
    No, stayed home with the Mets. They all came over after the game. “Yes. By myself.”
    Dr. Kirleski stared at her, as if diagnosing some horrible disease. Terminal loneliness, she assumed.
    â€œWell, Doris had an idea. We met someone last night. At thecharity dinner. She thought you might like to meet him. I have his card. Here, somewhere.”
    Oh God , Victoria thought as Dr. Kirleski raked his fingers through the jumble of papers on his desk. Another find by Doris Kirleski. There was Romance.com, Cupid.com, Match.com. And there was Doris Kirleski. As if the divorce from Jerry made Victoria some kind of charity case. To be pandered to and pitied, to be made Doris’s pet project. With that condescending voice, assuring Victoria, “Don’t worry. I’ll find someone for you. You’re special.” Pronouncing special as if she really meant “pathetic.”
    And the matches this matchmaker made!
    The multiple divorcées; the massive bellies; the balding scalps and comb-overs; the open shirts blossoming thick tangles of chest hair; the heavy cologne and clunky jewelry; the “father types” who were on the fast track to an assisted living facility; the “such-a-nice-guys” with the clammy handshakes and mumbled conversations; the players who never missed an opportunity to peer down her blouse; the loners, the losers, the louses. Either they were barely a step ahead of Jerry or barely a step behind. Ucccchhh.
    â€œHere it is!” He squinted at the business card in front of him. “Doris thinks this one is perfect.”
    Doris thought the “small businessman” who picked me up in a taxi was perfect. His small business was driving the taxi.
    â€œYou’re making that face!” Dr. Kirleski warned.
    â€œWhat face?”
    â€œThe face when you scrunch up your nose and curl down your lips. Like you’re swallowing bad medicine.”
    â€œIt’s just that—”
    â€œVictoria. I met this guy myself. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Call him. One date. What do you have to lose?”
    She unscrunched. “I’ll think about it, Doctor K. Your first appointment is almost here.”
    By the time she returned to her desk, she’d thought it over. Shelooked past the glass partition and out the waiting room porthole, toward her car, where the two unused Mets tickets sat, souvenirs of her loneliness. And she thought of another night, watching Sleepless in Seattle again, in that ratty “feel-sorry-for-myself” robe, with her fingertips saturated in popcorn oil.
    She picked up the card and read it:
    RICARDO MONTOYEZ
    Chairman of the Board
    VON ESCHENBACH’S SYNDROME FOUNDATION.
    Victoria D’Amico prided herself on her cynicism toward men. It was born and bred out of her marriage to that-bastard-Jerry-who-screwed-the-slut-behind-the-counter-and-kicked-me-to-the-curb. Still, she thought, cynicism may have been the armor that protected her from being hurt again, but it made a lousy companion.
    At some point Doris Kirleski’s inventory of damaged goods has to be exhausted. Somewhere, there has to be someone for me. My one true love.
    She cradled the business card in her palm.

THE TOWEL ATTENDANT II
    WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2004
    H assan could sense trouble. It smelled of suntan lotion and sounded like
heavy chains clanking around someone’s neck. It always began the same way:
    â€œCan I get anuthuh towel?”
    From his unfortified station at the towel hut at the Paradise Hotel and
Residences at Boca Raton, Hassan braced himself and said: “Sorry, sir. Only two
towels per guest.” He pointed his