Mrs. Jones had become an exotic vampire. I smiled; what she was doing was so damn erotic. She grinned at me in return, now feeling safe with what she was doing in front of me. When she was done, she closed her eyes. I said, “Lisa Mack made you come.” She shook her head in disbelief, gave me a shallow chuckle, her eyes getting tighter. “I couldn’t look at Lisa when we got off the plane. Hated her happy ass. Tried to avoid her after customs. Thought she would get her damn luggage and run to her boyfriend’s hotel” I chucked. “She looked happy when she got in that taxi.” “That’s how a woman smiles when she’s horny and knows it’s about to get handled” “You have the same smile.” She licked her fingers. “I know” I lay down on her, that river becoming our glue, and we kissed. We moved from deep kisses to softer kisses as we cooled down, like two athletes at the end of a workout. She moved away from me, got her own pillows, put her back to me. I put my arm around her. She shifted and I took that as a hint, so I moved my arm away. Reached for the remote, hit the on button. I changed channels and stopped at TV6. Every few minutes they played that irritating opening for the Simpson’s, this one using real people instead of animations. She whispered, “Horrible. That’s just plain horrible.” “That a woman made you come?” “No, that Simpsons intro thing. The cartoon is much better. That’s horrible.” A moment passed. I changed the channel, found footage on the former Prime Minister Tony Blair in the fallout from a loan scandal that he fell into when he was in office. I looked at Mrs. Jones. She stopped staring at my backpack, looked at me. Mrs. Jones said, “Blair sucked” I agreed. “He was the British Bush.” “Blair had a better vocabulary.” “Bush had better teeth.” “Tell me about your backpack” I pretended she didn’t faze me, surfed BBC1 Pictures of Reverend Coleman with birth and death dates lit up my room. Clips of his videos and interviews played in the background. The news had put together a package. In big Vegas-style lights Definition of Elite. The reporter said that this killing had left a trail of destruction rivaled only by the Japanese beetle. A thousand police lights and coroner vans were behind that house. The news called it a gang war Fans were showing up with flowers and candles and testimonies. They had his wife and kids on the news too. She was crying so were the kids. Two days ago the members that were close to Coleman were interviewed. No Limit Offices had issued a heartfelt comment. They said they were too shocked and broken up by the loss of an old employee to find words to express themselves. I changed the channel, moved on to BBC2, ITV, Channel 4, and Channel 5. One station was showing Friends. Will & Grace and Family Guy were warming up, next at bat. Another channel news, said there was a thirty-minute delay on some trains in some areas. That was followed by a special report giving props to the area that had the worst teeth in the UK I changed the channel again. Leeds University students were demanding the resignation of some higher power. Not exactly the kind of shit I wanted to hear about right now. I thought Mrs. Jones was going to sleep, but she kept shifting positions, bothered. I asked her what was wrong. She said her entire life was on her mind. She said, “Thinking about…I had an interesting childhood.” I muted the television, turned and faced Mrs. Jones She whispered, “My first sexual experience…was unexpected. Like this.” “This reminds you of that?” “Was with a girl.” She chuckled. “Never told anybody that. Not even my husband.” “What happened? How did that come about?” “It started off…we called ourselves practicing…for the day we were with a boy. We practiced…kissing our hands… then each other…first lips closed…then French…then touching…what to expect boys to touch…and it…it became something else for a while” “Did it?” “After school we’d…be togther. Do things. Things we thought boys would do.” “Like?” “It was innocent. Tried to teach each other how to kiss. Learned about our bodies.” “How did it end?” “Our parents found out…it got ugly.” “So your Bi?” “Not at all. Was just something I did when I was young girl, experimental, that’s all. With that one girl. No one else. Something that happened…decades ago. A lifetime ago.” Silence from me while she shifted a lot. She said, “Can’t believe I told you that. My husband doesn’t…didn’t know that.” “Really?” “There is…was a lot he doesn’t…didn’t know about me.” It was too quiet. I turned on the radio. I searched for Miles, or Wes, or Trane, stopped surfing at Choice FM. Beverly Knight’s remake of an old Al Green song was going off as Corinne Bailey Rae took the floor with her original music and told the UK to put their records on. I closed my eyes. The bed moved when Mrs., Jones got up. My hands ached. So did my face. Pins and needles were under my skin. All of those sensations were reminders. Days had passed and my insides still rattled with nervousness, like they did before a job. It was so vivid. Wondered how many Hail Marys a man like me would have to say to see glory. Corinne Bailey Rae went off and Amy Winehouse came on. “Moody’s Mood for love.” I opened my eyes; Mrs. Jones was preoccupied, trying to clean her black dress. I walked to the window, pulled the thick, red curtains back. London was gray and overcast, the same mood Mrs. Jones had been in before we crossed that line, and she was drifting back toward the land of melancholy. She wasn’t crying. That was good. My thoughts stayed back with Rev Coleman Mrs. Jones remained in her own world as well. She said, “My dress is ruined.” “Come stains?” “Jism blots all over. This dress cost four hundred dollars. Now it’s ruined.” “Now it’s a Lewinsky.” “It’s fucked-up, that’s what it is.” She got back in bed. Never should have brought her anxiety and problems up to my room. I went back to the bed. Mrs. Jones had pulled that cover up over her petite butt. “Lisa made you come.” “Damn that talkative bitch.” I said, “Doubt if she’s talking right now.” “She’s probably fucking the shit out of her boyfriend.” We laughed hard, me because in that moment, I heard the ghetto rise up and walk out of the tongue of a sophisticated woman. The timbre of hard times and ruthlessness in her tone. For a moment I imagined Mrs. Jones being my woman. I asked, “What if your husband went away?” “He’s already left me.” “No…what if…if…what if he ceased to exist?” “Died?” I let that idea sit for a moment, then acked, “Would that make you happy?” Silence charged into the room, followed by the muffled return of Mrs. Jones tears. She hurried into the bathroom, closed the door hard. I heard sobbing, water running, then the shower. She came back out wearing a towel, covering all she shared with me. Mrs. Jones said, “When he was a teenager, my husband used to rob banks.” “Your husband was a bad boy.” “He ran with gangs. And his older brother. Yeah. He robbed banks.” “You don’t say. And here I am using ATM to get my money.” “Your sense of humor is awful.” “Have to work on my timing, that’s all.” “My husband. He doesn’t know I know he was a stickup man.” “How did you find out?” “His mother told me. Before we married, his mother told me.” “And you still married him.” She went into a trance “Carmine” “Yes Mrs. Jones.” She looked unnerved. I asked, “Do I scare you?” “You made me wet. On the plane, in the galley, when you were flirting, you made me wet.” “Did I?” Guess the pimp game was better then I thought “You made me wet, then Lisa put her hands on me. She fanned the flames you created.” Mrs. Jones pulled her dress on, tried to smooth away the wrinkles and picked at the jism stains, sat at the end of the bed, not blinking, eyes glued to the wall. She wiped away her tears, whispered, “How much would something like that cost?” “You talking about a new dress?” “No the other thing. To make someone…cease to exist. What’s the going rate?” “What would it be worth to you?” Then the whispers ended and she was blinking again, crying harder. Her voice turned ragged. “Are you fucking with me, Carmine?” I remained calm. “I’m not fucking-” “Are you testing me-” “-With you” “Then what are you doing?” “I’m just asking a question.” “To see what kind of person I am?” She went on breathing hard for a while, tugging at her hair, shaking her head. She said, “I come from a long line of bad people. I’m not proud of it, but that’s who I am.” I looked at her, waited for her to say more or shut down. Either way didn’t matter. She said, “My father…he made money in Jamaica. He did illegal things.” “Drugs.” “I’m not saying.” “Jamaica is between where they manufacture the drugs and the people who buy drugs.” “Lots of kidnappings. Lots of murders.” “And Kingston has a murder rate that ranks number one, I do believe.” “So you’ve been to Kingstone?” “Saw a lot of beautiful things, met some beautiful women, but what’s up with the brothers walking the streets with their dicks hanging out of their pants? Is that a fashion statement?” She almost smiled “I’m serious. Why do they walk around with their dicks hanging out?” Because they can. “Isn’t it against the law?” “I didn’t study Jamaican Law.” Her smile vanished. “My father, he took us to America.” “From Jamaica.” “He came to my room. I was a child. I was six, maybe five. But I remembered his fear. He came and picked me up. In the middle of the night. Picked me up fast. He had me in his arms when he ran to get my mother. She was sleeping. Rushed us to an airfield. We left everything behind. Lefty abruptly, in our pajamas, my mother in her housecoat and house shoes, and I never knew why, but I did know why. The suitcase filled with money told me some of the why.” “That’s wild” “Im telling you things I never told my husband. Things I’ve never talked about.” We exchanged expressions Did you change your names once you got here…I mean there, to the US?” We changed names, changed everything. She whispered to herself for a moment. “Maybe I inherited my father’s old ways. Maybe anger and revenge live in my blood.” Meaning what? “Meaning I better get away from you before I make someone cease to exist.” I shrugged. “We were just being hypothetical.” She whispered, “Contemplation is prelude to commission.” “Is it?” “Like we contemplated fucking” “Then we were fucking” “Now we’re two people contemplating murder.” Silence moved between us, wedged us further apart, put us back in our corners. She whispered, “For what I am working out I do not know. For what I wish, this I do practice, but what I hate is what I do…but now the one working it out is no longer I, but sin that resides in me. For I know that in me, that is, in my flesh, there dwells nothing good. For ability to wish is present with me, but ability to work what is fine is not present. For the good that I wish I do not do, but the bad that I do not wish is what I practice…” I said, “And she quotes the bible.” She went on, her voice a perplexed whisper, the good and bad inside her fighting like rabid pit bulls, her face showing her inner struggle, revealing her angst. “I find, then, this law in my case: That when I wish to do what is right, what is bad is present with me…” Somebody tapped on my door. We both jumped, only in difference ways, for different reasons. Mine was the mild panic of a man worried about the law. Mrs. Jones jumped like a married woman who realized she was in the bedroom with another man, his come still on her breath, his seeds dying on her skin. I asked who it was “Housekeeping. You would…do you like your room to be serviced, yes?” We heard workers giggling in the hallway. Their accents thick enough to cut with a blade, maybe Polish or Romanian could’ve been some other Eastern Bloc tongue. I told them to go away, nothing was needed right now. They sounded like grown women but giggled like naughty teenagers, they apologized in chorus. That giggled meant they had heard us moaning. Their accents faded into the room across the hallway. Mrs Jones said, “My name was Henrietta Kellogg. That was my birth name.” “You changed it.” “My parents changed it. I woke up in America with a new identity.” “So you know how to leave an old life behind.” “Where I was from, money fixed all problems. Everybody had a price. Every from the police to the neighbor. You paid them off, made your problems go away. You made people go away. And if they didn’t have a price…if they didn’t have a price…” “They slept under the dirt.” “My father…he tried to kill someone for me…he tried…his old ways came back.” “Why did he try to kill someone for you?” “Because I asked him to.” She paused. “Because I told…begged him to.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. I nodded. “Your husband? Your father tried to kill your husband for you?” “Someone else. I don’t want to talk about that. Not ever. I want to forget it all.” I listened “So yesterday, I did just like I did when I was a child.” She took a breath. “I ran away. Got on a plane. Left my name. clothes. Everything I owned. I ran away from my life.” “Sounds traumatic.” “We shed the skins of who we used to be.” “Can’t imagine what you went through. What you’re going through.” “I’m going through…my life. Once again uprooted from friends. From my culture. From my world. Only when I was a little girl, I had my doll to comfort me. No doll, not this time.” She stared out the window for a moment. Looked like she was counting raindrops. She whispered, “I can be someone different every day. I can become a new woman every day until I like the woman I become, then I can become her for a while, if not forever.” She finished dressing. Mrs Jones said, “Too bad I didn’t know you last year.” “Is that right?” She walked to the door. She asked, “Have you slept with a lot of married women?” “Only the ones who have given up on their husbands.” “Then you have slept with a lot of married women.” I didn’t answer “I saw you exchange backpacks. Your bag is heavier.” “What does that tell you?” “You’re a criminal.” “And you’re an attorney.” “Not anymore.” “What are you now?” “I don’t know.” Mrs. Jones didn’t look back at me, just left the room. What a life… - [ * * * ] - Paul York is a man tainted by desperation. I'm sure he'll call it hustle or desire or ambition or will to win or something like that, but when those things are tempered by a constant supply of failure? That's when desperation sets in, when you start to see your window closing. He's coming off a heartbreaking lose, a lose that put his epic comeback to a epic failed attempt, the sad part isn’t the fact that he lost to Dom but the fact that.. No one cares. See, I understand that there's two kinds of people in wrestling amongst all the arrogant guys and hardcore kids and crafty cruisers and bacon hosses. Just two. Winners. Losers. And sure, sometimes Losers can beat other Losers. There has to be a tier of loserdom, or the world would implode every time two midcarders huggled in the ring. But here's the thing, dude - while Losers can eat their Wheaties, summon their hopes and dreams, muster everything into a single shining moment and beat Winners, it happens once in blue moon, and it doesn't happen consistently. Losers talk about streaks, about hard times, about how they're finally on the right track. Losers like to get in front of a camera and do their best impersonation of a Winner. But the difference is like Mountain Dew and Mello Yello, man. Winners just... fucking Win. You can tell. Now, what separates a Winner from a Loser is not some innate greatness, Paul. Of course, people like Isaac will insist that they are Born Better Than You because it makes great copy and makes Losers feel bad. But it's not true. A long time ago, while Losers were barking into the camera pretend to be Winners, Winners ... Shut The Fuck Up and Listened and learned Really Important Stuff. And as a result, they know things that you don't. They aren't complex things. I could probably change the course of your career with thirty seconds, a napkin, and a sharpie pin. But they're important. See Paul, sometimes losers can become winners. This isn't the Soviet Union. These aren't the castes of India. This is America! Where all you need is a plan and people who need you, and - All it takes is just a smidgen of humility. Self-analysis. The capacity to learn and adjust. A capacity you lack. Don't think for a second there's anything you can say that will shock, disturb, or intimidate me. I'm from Sacramento, California. You can't drop a deuce in that city without somebody who walks, talks, thinks, and acts just like you ready to swipe the turd out of the bowl I you can convince them its government aid. And don't fucking bother lecturing me on how much of a fuck up because I lost to Isaac at Fallout, because news flash homeslice you lost too. This chain reaction, the events that launched into motion the minute our names were across from each other on the board, it's something real, Paul, way realer than your trumped up prize fight with Dom. See, the problem with desperation is two fold: it shields you from the truth you need to improve yourself, and in that ignorance, you come ever closer to turning your fear into reality. Or rather, having someone like me do it for you. And me? Yeah, last week I lost my North American Championship. And yeah, this is a whole new ballgame. Last week was like... I dunno, basketball. The teams are roughly equal, there's a little back and forth, and one superlative player can change the tide of a game. This weeks ballgame is anticlimactic. This week's ballgame is like... golf. I wind up and swing really, really hard. Then you fly. Far away. You may already be a winner. But you and I both know, deep down, that you probably aren't. -- That’s a Wrap! --