Page 79 of Before We Say Goodbye
“What do you think, Otis?”
Otis began to lather his face with shaving cream. “I think you’re worn out and need some help. Let’s hire an assistant, someone to run the kids around. Cook some meals. You’re exhausted and taking it out on me.”
Rebecca squared up to him. “Fuck you, Otis.”
Then, per the usual lately, she stalked away.
Otis didn’t feel regret as he boarded the direct flight from SFO to MIA. He flew first class, and he sipped on Woodford Reserve the entire flight. He didn’t feel regret when he stepped out of the airport and slid on his shades, nor when he checked into the Four Seasons, the exact hotel where the 49ers were staying. He thought nothing of it when he pulled open the minibar in his suite.
This was what he deserved. You make sacrifices so that you can one day reap the rewards. No way would he turn down this opportunity. The tropical air was ripe with the Super Bowl madness, and whatcame with it was this wonderful sense of arrival. Everyone with a ticket to that game hadarrivedin their own way, taking their place on the podium of life.
What an absolute tragedy that his father had died before actually knowing who Otis had become. Sure, Addison might have worked too hard and put a lot of pressure on Otis to achieve what he hadn’t, but it had worked. Whatever he’d done, it had worked, and now Otis had finally done it. Achieved his wildest dreams.
By the time he claimed his reserved table at Joe’s Stone Crab in South Beach, he was properly sozzled. A quick Negroni warmed him up even more. His words stumbled out of his mouth as he ordered a loaded baked potato, creamed spinach, and a twenty-ounce New York strip done Oscar style.
“Live like you’re gonna die, ol’ boy,” Otis told the young server, who then tried to push a ridiculously priced cult Napa cab on him. “No, no, a bottle of that Château Lynch-Bages would be a far better pairing.”
One in the morning, Otis woke in a sweat and kicked off the covers with a curse. After a stumble to the toilet, he turned down the air-conditioning to sixty. Back in the bed, his mind started racing, so he flipped on the television for a while. Tomorrow would be murder if he didn’t fall back asleep. Thirty minutes later, he popped a benzo and chased it with a mini bottle of Crown.Finally, he faded away.
Over an indulgent room-service breakfast and a pot of coffee, Otis read the new Sam Ledbetter article inThe New York Times.
In the article, Bedwetter highlighted several of his favorite producers, then got to Lost Souls. Otis’s hangover quickly took second place to rage.
I tasted through Lost Souls’ lineup recently and was not surprised to find the wines syrupy and overdone. Isuspect this trend has been happening for a long time. Till’s Heartbreak White Zin was proof that he’s in it for the money, and now I believe he’s pandering to the critics. Perhaps I shall ask: Who could blame him? Otis Till could urinate into a bottle, and his loyal followers would happily lap it up.
When Otis called Rebecca, he was drunk off three Bloody Marys. “Bedwetter strikes again.”
“What, Otis? It’s early here.”
“I know. Sorry. But I had to tell you. Listen to what he said.” Otis read the entire mention. “Can you believe that?”
She sighed. “I don’t care, Otis. I’m so tired of you going to war with this man. Are you drunk? You’re slurring.”
“No, I’m not drunk. It’s eight in the morning.”
“Okay, well, I’m going back to bed. Forget about the article and be safe, okay?”
“I love you,” he said.
The phone clicked.
The thing was ... there were times when being in the doghouse was an acceptable trade-off. Any male in his right mind would agree that attending the Super Bowl made up for the punishment.Give me a Super Bowl in Miami, and, honey, you can put me in the doghouse for a month!
Over seventy-five thousand people were crammed into Joe Robbie Stadium. Otis had club seats with access to the full bar in a fine lobby with a crowd of celebrities. He took a double Crown and Coke and a hot dog and sat down on the fifty-yard line. People wore costumes. They’d painted their faces and bodies. The air was electric.
Otis was properly drunk and had a hard time seeing the jersey numbers, but he made out number sixteen taking the field. “Joe!” he yelled. “Let’s go get ’em!” The whole crowd roared with him.
“He’s my friend!” Otis yelled. “Let’s go, Joe Cool!”
He looked beside him to see his boys’ reactions, and then remembered they weren’t there. They would have loved this. He wondered who was at the house for the Super Bowl back home. He hadn’t even asked. Maybe they’d see him on television.
He took a long sip of his drink, then another.
Sitting back down, he bit into the hot dog. Relish. Mustard. Ketchup.
And regret.
That’s what he tasted. It was a meager hot dog, but it was so much more, taking him back through the years to all the hot dogs they’d eaten and the hard work they’d put in to get to where they were. Never could he have done any of it without Bec.
