Finding Parker Page 5

  Pluck.

  I need to do what is right.

  Pluck.

  Yet.

  I need to know when to fold my hand.

  Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

  When to forfeit.

  Pluck.

  Now is not the time.

  I need to continue, proceed, move forward. If there is a lesson to learn, I will learn it. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I rotated my head slowly and focused on my eyebrows. The light above the mirror provided sufficient illumination to support what I already assumed.

  Eyebrow perfection.

  PARKER. The passage of time has always been something I have found fascinating. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Seasons. Years. Decades. Lifetimes.

  Through the course of college, time passed at various speeds. Generally speaking, it was all too quickly. There never appeared to be enough time to get the work completed that was before me. After I had graduated, it seemed as if it was no more than a year ago when I started.

  Time passes at a constant rate. It never changes. A second is always a second. Sixty of them make a minute, and sixty minutes make one hour.

  Always.

  Our perception of the passage of time, however, changes. I believe when I am anxious of the arrival of a particular event, time seems to pass very slowly. If I allow myself to become consumed by smaller events preceding the larger event, time seems to pass more quickly.

  In short, I have concluded thinking - or reasoning - creates the illusion of time passing slowly. Mindlessness allows us to fly through the days and nights as if they never existed. One may stand to reason, and I certainly do, that a thoughtful person lives a lifetime equal to three or four of that of a mindless couch potato.

  Fascinating.

  “Oh my God, It seems like this day just appeared. You know, it was here like…well, boom!” Katelyn tossed her hands in the air to demonstrate the explosion.

  “I sure arrived quickly, didn’t it?” I turned my head and smiled, knowing it seemed like an eternity.

  I turned the corner onto Camino De La Costa. As I proceeded up the street, Katelyn’s jaw noticeably dropped. Sitting in the passenger seat with her mouth open, staring at the homes along the road, she spoke.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  6201. Here we are.

  Slowly, I turned into the entrance of Kenton’s home.

  “Breathtaking, aren’t they?” I said as I came to a stop beside the stone post.

  The gate slowly began to open.

  “Good evening Mr. Bale,” a familiar voice came from the speaker.

  “Mr. Bale?” Just who the hell are you?” Katelyn asked.

  “Just a friend,” I responded, smiling.

  Katelyn continued to gawk at the front of the home as I drove up the drive toward the fountain. It was almost dark, and it appeared every light in the home was illuminated. The front of the home was not only well lit from the inside, the outside had a considerable amount of landscape and architectural lighting on the surface of the exterior walls. Every irregular surface cast a long shadow upward, creating an illusion of depth and distance.

  As the car came to a stop at beside the fountain, Downes stepped onto the porch.

  “What’s your last name?” I whispered as I reached for the door handle.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Your last name, what is it?” I asked as I held the door handle and waited to open the door.

  “Uhhm. Moss,” she responded.

  I nodded as I opened the door. As I walked around the front of the car toward Katelyn’s door, Downes nodded his head and smiled. When Katelyn stepped from the car, I slowly began walking toward the porch.

  Staring up toward the large windows, Katelyn stumbled on the drive as she walked beside me. As she stumbled, I caught her arm in my hand, steadying her stance.

  “Downes,” I paused.

  “Miss Katelyn Moss,” I continued as I stepped onto the bottom step.

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Moss. Please, follow me. Mr. Ward is perfecting his ability to putt,” Downes said as he turned to face the front door.

  “Oh my God,” Katelyn whispered as she stepped into the hallway.

  We followed as Downes walked toward the rear of the home. As we approached the windowed wall which faced the ocean, Downes turned to the right and stopped in front of two large French doors. As he opened one of them, I noticed Kenton’s shadow on a putting green below the patio.

  “Mr. Ward. Mr. Bale and Miss Katelyn Moss here to see you,” Downes said sharply from the elevated deck of the patio.

  Kenton spoke as he turned to face us.

  “My apologies,” he said as he began to walk from the putting green toward the steps that led to the patio.

  “But the game of golf, Miss Moss is lost or won right here,” he gestured toward the green.

  “On the putting green,” he began to walk up the steps, using the putter jokingly as a cane.

  “Everyone gets on in two or three strokes,” he paused and extended his hand toward Katelyn.

  “And they’ll four putt their way into a loss. I have vowed not to step onto another course for as much as a round until I can have a sub-par round at Torrey Pines’ south course. I need practice. Miss Moss, pleasure to meet you, I’m Kenton Ward,” he smiled as she shook his hand.

  Silently, and her mouth still noticeably agape, she shook his hand.

  “May I call you Katelyn?” Kenton asked.

  “Yes. Yes sir, you may,” she stumbled.

  Kenton nodded and turned to face me. He raised his hand and slapped me on the shoulder lightly.

  “Parker, you rarely stop and visit. Let’s change that, shall we?” he chuckled.

  “I’ll do my best, Kenton,” I grinned.

  “Katelyn, do you drink tea?” Kenton asked as he turned and began to walk toward a wrought iron table positioned on top of the patio.

  “Yes, I do,” she responded.

  Kenton nodded toward Downes, who disappeared quietly through the French doors.

  “Please, sit down,” Kenton motioned toward the chairs which surrounded the table.

  Kenton smiled as I pulled a chair from the table and waited for Katelyn to sit. After she sat, I lowered myself into the chair beside her. Kenton leaned his putter against the handrail of the patio pulled out a chair across the table from us. As he sat down, he looked down at his shoes.

  “It seems I never take these damned things off. I spend all of my spare time on this damned green, Parker. You’d think I had some vested interest in the game. Nothing could be farther from the truth,” he grinned as he looked up.

  “I’ve never been,” Katelyn paused and turned from staring out at the ocean to face Kenton, “golfing that is.”

  “Well, it’s a frustrating sport to say the least. So, Parker, what have you two filled your evening with?” Kenton asked as he leaned into his chair and faced me.

  “Well. We ate dinner, drove around and talked for a bit, and decided to come visit you. To end the evening on a relaxing note,” I gestured toward the ocean as I spoke.

  “What was for dinner?” Kenton asked.

  “Oh my God. We went to Rockin’ Baja Lobster,” Katelyn stammered, obviously still excited from my choice of the restaurant.

  “You must have planned that, Parker. Getting into that place on a Friday night is impossible without a reservation. The lobster corn chowder is a must. One of my favorite places,” Kenton smiled.

  “Oh my God. We had the chowder. It was so good. And a Cortez Bucket. It was so good,” Katelyn sat up in her chair and clasped her hands together as she spoke.

  “What was in the Cortez? I always get the Baja Bucket; chicken, beef, shrimp, and lobster. I can’t seem to stray from it. Maybe it’s partly that I know I’ll leave satisfied,” Kenton grinned and rubbed his palms together feverishly as he waited for Katelyn to respond.

  “Oh my God. It was l
obster and uhhm,” Katelyn looked up and pressed her fingers against her cheeks.

  The French door opened and Downes stepped to the patio with a pitcher of tea and three glasses on a tray. Quietly, he placed the serving tray onto the table in front of us, poured three glasses, and turned away.

  “Crab. Lobster, crab, and shrimp. Oh my God, it was so good,” Katelyn said as she reached for a glass of tea.

  If she says ‘oh my God’ or ‘it was so good’ again, I may vomit.

  “It’s peach tea. Karen made it this afternoon. I enjoy it. Tell me what you think, Katelyn,” Kenton said, winking in my direction as Kaelyn raised the glass to her mouth.

  As Katelyn lowered the glass onto the table, she smiled.

  “Oh my God,” she said, licking her lips, “it is so good.”

  As the bile rose in my throat, I was grateful that we had eaten seafood for dinner, and not Mexican food. I felt somewhat embarrassed about Katelyn’s immature behavior and repeated responses to Kenton’s questions. I glanced at my watch. 8:35.

  This night couldn’t end quickly enough.

  I had not devoted much time to dating women compared to most men, I was certain. I began to realize why as Katelyn babbled. As she continued to speak, I realized her voice was becoming more and more distant. Muffled. I was doing with her what I used to do with Mrs. Best in third grade.

  I was ignoring her; building a mental dam of sorts. It prevented her voice, ideas, or opinions from littering my mind. The act of mentally eliminating her from existence was all but second nature to me.

  Mrs. Best was my teacher in third grade. Her voice was annoying, her opinions weren’t worth hearing, and her statements regarding most anything were inaccurate at best. I learned to block her voice from being heard, and as I perfected the process, I often found myself in trouble. Once, to my surprise, I had blocked out an entire hour of her class. At the end of class, she called on me to respond to a question she had asked. I didn’t even realize she was speaking at all until another student nudged me, bringing me out of my semi-comatose state.

  “Parker. You weren’t paying attention. You were drooling,” Mrs. Best said.

  All of the children in the class snickered and laughed.

  I raised my hand to my lip.

  Dry.

  “I was paying attention,” I responded as I lowered my hand to the desk, frustrated she tried to embarrass me.

  “What was the discussion?” Mrs. Best asked as she glanced at the clock.

  I looked at the clock. I had blocked out the entire one hour class. Only three minutes remained. I glanced to my left. Jessica looked at me and smiled as she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Synonyms, antonyms, and homonyms,” Jessica whispered.

  “Synonyms, antonyms, and homonyms,” I looked around the room as I responded.

  “Impressive. Can you explain to the class the differences between them?” Mrs. Best asked.

  Knowing there wasn’t another kid in the class that could answer this question accurately; I thought of what my grandmother had taught me in the countless hours of studying at home.

  “A synonym is a word which means the same thing as another word. Laugh and giggle. An antonym is a word that is the opposite of another word. Big and small. And a homonym is a word that sounds like another word but means something different,” I paused and thought for a moment.

  I looked at Mrs. Best and smiled, “I went to the store. Two plus two is four.”

  As Mrs. Best looked at me in disbelief, the buzzer sounded, ending class. As I stood from my chair and gathered my books, I looked at Jessica and smiled. As she smiled in return I felt warmth inside my chest. Jessica was nice and her hair reflected the sun instead of absorbing it. Throughout middle school, I liked that about her.

  “Isn’t that right, Parker?” Kenton’s voice was barely audible.

  I blinked my eyes and glanced at my watch. 9:05. I had lost thirty minutes. I processed what Kenton had asked and thought of a safe response.

  “Absolutely,” I chimed, smiling.

  I turned toward Katelyn, wondering what she and Kenton had talked about for thirty minutes. Her hair absorbed every bit of light from the patio. A dull, dirty ball of asymmetrical blackness atop her head, she looked my direction and smiled.

  Unlike when Jessica smiled at me in school, I didn’t feel the warmth inside. I didn’t feel that her smile offered me something to look forward to. In fact, it had, in a short time, become irritating. I focused on her once beautiful eyes.

  I felt cold inside.

  It was time I ended this date, and take Miss Katelyn Moss home.

  Wait a minute.

  Katelyn Moss.

  Kate Moss.

  My date for the night shared the same name as the crack smoking, former, not-so-super supermodel.

  I should have known.

  I sat and recalled what was sure to become some very valuable words of one Kenton Ward. And, you have to know when to shove your cards to the center of the table and say, ‘I give up.’ There’s no shame in it. All the winners do it, and they do it regularly. The unintelligent, the dreamers, and the unknowing don’t.

  And as a result they lose.

  The time had come for me to shove my cards to the center of the table and give up. I needed to fold this particular hand, and do so in as graceful as a manner as I could develop. I needed to get her away from here and do it away from Kenton, minimizing my exposure to his scrutiny.

  I turned to Katelyn.

  “You want to go to Belmont Park and ride the Mission Beach roller coaster? The Giant Dipper?” I asked.

  “Oh my God. That sounds awesome. You want to go, Kenton?”

  I turned toward Kenton and waited for what would be his certain response in the form of no. Without a doubt, he had much more important things to do on a Friday night than accompany us to Belmont Park. As he stood from his chair and straightened the fabric of his shorts, I attempted to disguise the grin developing on my face.

  “I’d love to,” Kenton responded.

  As the bile once again rose in my throat, I began to realize the value in being more cautious of whom I may ask out on a date, and less eager to simply fill a void in a schedule on a calendar. Muffled voices in the background continued. I was blocking her out again – a failed effort to make her disappear. I stood from my chair and followed as Katelyn and Kenton walked into the house. I had yet to develop a single plan of how to rid myself of Katelyn and do so with any degree of grace. I decided to allow the night to unfold and look for any opportunity that may present itself.

  Katelyn turned and walked into the hall bathroom, giggling. As she closed the door, I turned toward Kenton and made eye contact for the first time of the night. Somewhat embarrassed, I stared, not quite knowing what to say.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered mockingly.

  “I know,” I whispered in return.

  “So, when is the second date?” he chuckled as he reached down and removed one of his golf shoes.

  “There won’t be one,” I responded.

  “Here’s my advice, Parker,” he paused as he pulled the shoe from his other foot.

  “Be delicate, kind, and remain friendly with her. Explain in the best manner you are able that she merely doesn’t fit the mold of what you seek in a mate. She won’t like it, but she’ll understand. Be clear. Women typically maintain or develop hope if you aren’t one hundred percent clear with your intent. Be concise. And by all means, do so after this night is over,” he said, his golf shoes dangling from his fingers.

  I nodded in acknowledgement as Kenton finished speaking. I realized as he turned to walk away although he may look at this as an employer employee relationship, I – in many respects – was beginning to view it as somewhat of a father son relationship.

  The thought of which provided me with comfort.

  And pain.

  PARKER. Life is far more abrasive in experiencing its individual components than the sum itself. I liken it to the
ingredients that make up a recipe. For instance, grilled beef tenderloin in Cabernet sauce first requires balsamic vinegar, garlic, rosemary, peppercorns, olive oil, and salt for the steak marinade. Individually, or standing alone, none of these ingredients are very palatable.

  The steaks, once soaked overnight in this marinade and grilled, clearly define how an herbed, spiced filet mignon should taste. Regardless of the quality of the latter prepared Cabernet sauce, the steaks are merely chunks of grilled meat without the initial marinade. The sum of ingredients will develop something to be enjoyed by all who partake in the meal. Individually, the ingredients are repulsive at best.

  I believe life can be compared to cooking in many respects. We know not to add vanilla to spaghetti sauce. In a batch of our favorite cookies, however, it may be quite tasty. Additionally, a slice of bell pepper which may work well in a salad would be out of place in a German chocolate cake. I feel I need to be cautious of the people I permit into my life no differently than I would be careful of the ingredients I would include in a recipe. I suppose a good recipe for life would be to allow nothing into it, knowingly at least, which is bitter.

  It’s disappointing we aren’t able to simply spit people out that don’t taste well.

  “Maybe I had one too many glasses of wine. I’ll do better next time. I really enjoyed myself,” she said sheepishly.

  “It’s not any of those things. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that,” I paused and tried to think of something to say that would satisfy us both.

  “It’s just that I, well, I’m different. I desire certain things in a woman, and you don’t possess the qualities I require. To continue wouldn’t be fair to you or to me either one,” as I finished speaking, I realized I hadn’t really offered much explanation.

  “How would you know I don’t have what you want? We spent one night together. One. Give me some time,” she pleaded, her eyes glistening from the tears that began to well.

  “Time won’t change anything. I like you Katelyn. It’s simply that, well…” I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t going as easily as I expected it to.