Look Closer

“You don’t mind, do you, Mini-Me?” he used to say, patting me so hard on the back that I almost fell over. I remember that part, though; the guy had the IQ of a fire hydrant, but he always made sure I told him it was okay, so he could use that as a defense, if need be. He said he didn’t mind. He liked it. We were just having fun.

I did mind, of course. It was humiliating. And sometimes it hurt. But I got pretty good at breaking my landing, protecting my face when I hit the mat, fingers balled into fists so I didn’t break any of them.

I always wondered, Why me? What did I ever do to the guy? Sure, I was a diminutive, nerdy freshman. I was a walking cliché for a bully’s target. But I wasn’t the only one.

Looking back, it’s not hard to see. We had math together. I was in geometry, which was basically an honors class for a freshman, and he was taking it as a senior. I was getting A’s and he could barely pass.

If our before-school time together wasn’t fun enough, he’d find me at lunch, too. He’d walk over to my table in the lunchroom and pat me on the head. I had a bottle of Gatorade in my lunch every day. My mother was trying to put weight on me. “You don’t mind, do you, Mini-Me?” he’d say to me and swipe the Gatorade off the table. One day, to compensate for this daily interaction, I brought a second bottle to keep for myself, but he swiped up that one, too. “Must be my birthday,” he said. The other kids at my table, mostly freshmen like me, just looked away. Nobody ever said anything to me. They knew that they’d do the same thing in my shoes—nothing.

Mitchell was one of the kings of the school. He had colleges coming from near and far to watch him wrestle and recruit him. In the end, it didn’t work out for him. He screwed up at some big meet and later ended up running crosswise of the law, nearly went to prison.

So maybe there’s karma in the world, after all. Maybe I should let it lie there. But every time I trace that scar on my left cheek, he re-enters my mind.

—

A little after seven at night, I leave the law school and run my five miles to Wicker Park. I stop in the alley between the back patio of Viva Mediterránea and the row of condos on the next street over. There’s been a bit of rain this evening, and the autumn weather is flirting with us, enough to dampen enthusiasm for Viva’s outdoor patio, but a few people are outside in light jackets and sweaters enjoying cocktails and clinging to the vestiges of summer.

At eight sharp, I pull out my green burner phone, insert the SIM card, and type a message:

Top of the evenin’ to yah, lassie.

She replies:

Um, Lassie was a dog but ok

Ah, testy. I text:

Cranky are we?

She replies:

Didn’t sleep well last night Con snores so loudly

That’s vivid. Even mentions the husband by name. Oh, well. My response:

So that’s why I missed you this morning?

She replies:

Once he left I slept half the morning

Ah, that works. I type:

Can’t say I enjoy image of you sleeping with him.

She replies:

Well it’s his house don’t be healing

Bubbles, and she replies again:

LOL don’t be JEALOUS damn autocorrect bye for now

Fair enough. I power down the phone, remove the SIM card, and stuff both into the pocket of my running shorts.

I look up at the row of condos, the rear balconies overlooking this alley. The third one down is empty, but the lights are on inside the apartment.

The third condo down belongs to Christian Newsome, who has been screwing Vicky for the last couple of weeks.

Yeah, I know about that. I’ve even seen Christian out on his patio a couple of times when I’ve come here for my nightly runs. Sometimes Christian sits out there alone. Sometimes he’s out there with his friend Gavin.

Never Vicky, though. No, Vicky would be far, far too cautious to allow herself to be seen in public with Christian.

Am I upset about Vicky having sex with another man? Of course. I’m only human. But one could argue that I lack standing to complain under the circumstances.

I’m trying to be reasonable about this. Sometimes I am a perfectly reasonable man.

Other times, I let things bother me more than they should.

THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN

40 Jane

Conrad Betancourt sits slumped against the couch in his living room. His eyes are glassy, with thick, dark pouches beneath. His only saving grace is a decent suntan.