Page 5 of Dirty Filthy Boy
I float toward my cubbyhole in a cloud of glory only to get the stink eye from Randy when I pass by him. I don't know what he's got against me. He reports on the street beat scene; I cover the social issues. Maybe he's upset about the football interview. He shouldn't be. Mr. Bartlett asked me to talk to Ron Moss because the sports reporter and his backup both came down with the flu. I was the only reporter in the office when his call. If Randy had gotten to work on time, maybe Mr. Bartlett would have handed the assignment to him. So he's got no one to blame but himself.
By now it's late afternoon and beyond my quitting time, so I head home to my minuscule apartment in the Avondale section of the city. Not the best of neighborhoods, but it's all I can afford. As soon as I walk in the door, my cell rings with the special peal I've programmed for Marigold Thompson, my best friend and ex-college roommate. She's a school teacher who, just like me, is working her first job. We've been so busy, she teaching second graders, me at the newspaper, we haven't gotten together for two weeks. But it's Saturday night and she wants to cut loose.
An hour later, she shows up, wearing a tight, micro skirt, a see-thru white blouse with a black bra underneath and a pair of long, sparkling earrings. Not exactly the schoolmarm look she sports during school hours, but it's pure Marigold. Since I live only a short distance from one of the most popular clubs in town, we decide to walk, rather than cab it. On the way, I fill her in on the details of today's fiasco, leaving out the part about me touching a certain portion of Ron's anatomy.
"Can't believe you did that." She's not being judgmental. After four years in college, she knows me only too well. I never wear anything low cut or high rise, so yeah, today was out of character for me.
"I know. I was an idiot."
"Give yourself a break, MacKenna. You fell for a practical joke, that's all." She curls her arm through my elbow in a show of support. "So who were they?"
"I don't know. They didn't introduce themselves." And afterward, I'd been too embarrassed and angry to ask their names. But next time I see Ty Mathews, I'll ask him. I'll get even with those clowns if it's the last thing I do.
"So what did your boss say? Are you in trouble?" Clearly, she expects the worst.
"Well, another player volunteered to be interviewed so I think I'm going to be okay." I wrap my shawl tighter around me. It might be early September, but with the breeze blowing from Lake Michigan, the air's turned cool.
"Who?"
"Ty Mathews."
She comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. "Shut-up!" Her screech almost deafens me. "The star quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws?" Marigold is what you might call a football fanatic, something she grew to appreciate from tutoring half the college football team.
"Yeah."
She clamps her hands on my shoulders and shakes me. "Girl, you just won the lottery. He never gives private interviews."
"So I heard." I squirm beneath the pressure of her hands. For a five-foot nothing, the girl's got a mighty grip. "Mar, let go." Once she releases me, I flex my arms to get the blood flowing again. We've reached the corner across from the nightclub, so I push the button to get the walk light. As busy as this intersection is, we'd be risking our lives if we mad dash it across the street.
"He talks to the press at the end of each game, but he doesn't do one on ones. So this is like huge. Bigger than huge. It's like . . . What's wrong?" She must have noticed me chewing my lip. One thing about Mar, she's tuned in to the universe. Comes from being raised by new age parents and living in a commune.
The 'Walk' light comes on. Not trusting Chicago drivers, I look both ways before crossing the boulevard. "Do you think he offered because . . . you know?"
"He wants to do the nasty with you? I think there's a big chance, yeah." Rather than walk, she beebops her way across the street.
I come to a dead stop on the island in the middle of the intersection. "You're supposed to make me feel better about doing this interview. Not worse."
She tugs at me. "Come on. We gotta get across." As we make the other side, she dismisses my objection with a wave of her hand. "You got nothing to worry about. He's got women lined up all over town begging him to screw them. That boy's a playah. And he never sleeps with the same woman twice."
"He doesn't?"
"Yep. So he doesn't need to screw a dewy-eyed virgin from the middle of nowhere Iowa."
"I'm not a virgin!" Granted, I've only done it three times, but once is all it takes to lose your V-card. Right?
"Guarantee he doesn't think so. Not with that purer-than-driven-snow vibe you put out. Honestly, MacKenna, you gotta get some and pronto."
Tired of being thought of as a goody-two-shoes, I blurt out. "I touched Ron Moss's ass."
"You did? No wonder he walked out on the interview. That wide receiver is about as straight as they come."
Marigold knows her jocks. Comes from tutoring so many of them in college. "And Ty Mathews called me a bold woman," I say with a note of pride in my voice.
"Woot!" She high fives me. "MacKenna Perkins, there might be some hope for you after all."
Her ebullient spirits make me feel better until we turn the corner and run into the block-long line in front of Platinum. We're not getting in. No way. No how.
