21-Year-Old Scotch - 8. Chapter 8

"One...dollar...and...eighty...five...cents...please," said the recorded female voice. "Please...deposit...one...dollar...and...eighty...five...cents...for...the...first...three...minutes."

Scott hung up the phone, not having any coins on him. He picked up the receiver and dialed again, this time starting with his finger in the "zero" hole. He couldn't even guess how long it had been since he had made a collect phone call, or used a rotary dial, or even been inside a phone booth. He knew for sure it had been ten years since he had called this particular number.

The operator asked Scott for his name, then resumed the call. After four rings, Scott heard the clunking of a phone being answered at the other end, and a male voice said, "Hello?"

The sound of that voice gave Scott gooseflesh. "Hey, Dad, it's..."

But the operator interrupted Scott. "I have a collect call from a Scott. Will you accept the charges?" Scott had completely forgotten the protocol of this procedure. How did we ever live in such a primitive age?

His father's tinny voice could be heard faintly, shouting away from the receiver, "Marion, it's your son."

Scott found it strange that his father wouldn't simply say he would take the call. As he listened to the static of the silence at the other end of the line, Scott noticed his knee shuddering involuntarily. It wasn't nervousness, exactly, but a stew of various intense emotions that he couldn't easily define in a word or two. In all likelihood, there wasn't a word for what he was feeling, since his current situation was uncommon to say the least. How often would people need to use a word meaning "anxiety caused by traveling back in time and speaking to your dead parents again"? Scott's mother had lost her long battle with lung cancer eleven years ago, and his father died of congestive heart failure seven months later, so the prospect of having another conversation with either of them without the intervention of a psychic would have seemed impossible to Scott a day ago. Just the distant sound of his mother's cough was making Scott choke up.

"Hellooo?", his mother said with her typical tone of Midwestern politeness. Scott almost blurted out something again, but stopped when he heard the operator's voice again, asking if Marion would accept the charges. "Of course," Scott's mother replied.

"Hey, mom," Scott said, doing his best to stop from crying. "It's Scott!"

"Yes, I know, dear," she said patiently.

"It's so great to hear your voice again!" His own voice cracked mid-sentence.

"We just talked yesterday morning when I called to wish you a happy birthday." Concern crept into his mother's voice. "Is there something the matter? You sound awful."

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just had kind of a hard day is all."

"Aww, honey, what happened?"

Scott snuffled back the river of snot that was pooling like lava in his nose, clenching his teeth and pressing his feet against the walls of the phone booth to keep himself from dissolving into a blubbering mess. "Oh, Amanda and I broke up this morning," he said, trying but failing to break the news casually.

"Ohhhhhh, sweetheart," his mother said sympathetically. "What brought this about?"

"It's been building up for...a while," Scott said, mentally completing the thought with "going on thirty years." "It just became obvious that we're interested in...different things."

"I'm so sorry you're hurting. I always liked Amanda," his mother said. "But I never thought you were right for each other."

The receiver slid out of Scott's grip, the coiled cord tangling in his fingers as he scrambled to retrieve the handset. He could hear his mother saying, "Hello? Scott, are you there?", as he brought the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry, mom, I just...I'm not sure I heard what you said."

"I said I thought you weren't right for each other."

Okay, so he did hear her right the first time. "But you always got along so great with her."

"Of course I did, honey. She was your girlfriend. If she made you happy, then it made me happy. It wasn't my place to say otherwise."

See what being polite gets you? If Scott had heard those words from his mother a long time ago, perhaps he would have had the strength to walk away from his marriage. His parents had seemed so delighted when he finally started seeing a girl in college, after being dateless throughout high school, and he had never been able to imagine that he could find a woman he got along with better than Amanda.

"Don't worry," his mother said reassuringly. "I know it's hard, but you'll get over her. Probably faster than you expect. I just know you'll find someone perfect for you."

"Thanks, mom," Scott said, gearing up to move on to his next topic. "I also might need you to send me some money."

"Of course, dear," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. "What do you need it for?"

"Well...I've gotta find a new place to live. I...I moved out of the apartment."

This seemed to bother her more than his breakup with Amanda. "What in the world happened?"

"It's complicated." Scott realized that the only honest answer would require him to make a major announcement, one he had successfully dodged while his parents were alive. He bit his lip as he watched his knee bouncing more rapidly than before. "Listen, I've got something important I need to tell you. You might wanna get Dad to pick up the extension in the den."

The silence at the other end was interminable. All he could hear was the faint play-by-play of a basketball game from several rooms away. "Mom, you there?"

Finally, she said, "Yes, I'm here. Can't you just tell me what it is and I'll pass it along?"

"Is there something wrong with Dad?", Scott asked. "He wouldn't even accept the charges before."

Scott's mother sounded slightly puzzled that she would need to explain this to him. "Honey, you know he swore that he won't speak to you until you change your major back to business."

Scott felt a major chunk of memory drop into place in his brain, like just the right Tetris piece falling perfectly into a gaping chasm and eliminating several lines at once. Up until now, he had remembered how he quit that play in high school because of his father's objections, but that recollection crumbled to dust as a barrage of new facts rose to prominence in his mind, negating his previous memory. Instead of acceding to his father's wishes, Scott now remembered defying his dad, rebelling for perhaps the first time in his life. He stayed in the play and found the experience utterly fulfilling, getting a standing ovation every night. He could clearly picture his mother attending every performance, beaming with pride, each time with an empty seat beside her.

Not everything about his past had changed so radically. Scott could still recall starting college as a business administration major to please his dad. But now Scott could also remember their fierce arguments when Scott finally made the decision to change his major to drama, even though it meant it would take him longer than four years to complete his studies. Scott's dad had already arranged for one of his close buddies to hold a comfortable job open for Scott when he finished college, and he couldn't believe his son would throw that away in favor of "a colossal waste of time" like acting. The raw emotions of events which Scott would have absorbed over a span of years in real time had arrived in his consciousness condensed into a single devastating instant, walloping Scott like a spiked wrecking ball to his heart.

"Scott," his mother asked tenderly, "what's your important news? If it's about the money, I'll send you whatever you need. I just can't let your father find out I'm doing it. Or is there something else?"

Scott realized he couldn't come out over the phone. If he decided it had to be done at all, that announcement would have to be handled delicately in person. All he could think to say was, "I just wanted you to know I love you. Tell dad that too, okay?"

"Don't be silly, son. We know you love us. And we love you, too. Any idea when you'll be coming home for a visit?"

"I don't know. I'd sure like to see you again." Scott was torn between ending the call right then before he burst into uncontrollable sobbing or staying on the line as long as possible to savor every millisecond of hearing his mother's voice again. He could feel the sadness building inside of him and knew he would soon be reduced to incoherent babbling, so he opted to wrap up the conversation. "Listen, you take care of yourself, okay? Oh, and Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Try to lay off the cigarettes? Please? For me?"

"Goodbye, my baby," she said sweetly.

Scott hung up the receiver slowly, then dragged his forearm across his eyes to wipe away his tears. He sat quietly in the phone booth for several minutes, trying to regain his composure, only to be brought back to reality by the sound of knuckles pounding on the door of the phone booth. Mr. Galaga stood on the other side of the glass, holding a plate with a slice of pizza and half a cup of Coke. "Your food getting cold!" He placed them unceremoniously on a table and returned to his post behind the counter. Scott took some solace in the realization that some things in this world had not changed on him, at least not yet. He left the phone booth, took a seat and savored the pizza, allowing each bite to linger in his mouth as if he were attempting to memorize it.

When at last he finished, he walked to the counter to pay for his meal. Mrs. Galaga peered with concern from beneath her heavy eyebrows. In a thick voice that was lower than her husband's, she asked softly, "You are okey-dokey?" They were the first words Scott had ever heard her utter.

Scott broke into a wide smile and regarded the older woman with affection. "Yeah, I am okey-dokey," he assured her, even if he wasn't sure about that. She looked pleased and handed him the change from his ten-spot. His thirteen bucks had now been whittled down to eight dollars and fifty cents. He stuck the bills in his wallet and realized just what to do with the two quarters.

He walked over to the jukebox, amazed that the ancient machine would give him five selections for twenty-five cents. He couldn't pass up that kind of bargain. Although nearly all of the songs had been released before Scott was born, he recognized many of the titles, either from oldies radio or his parents' record collection. He pondered his options carefully, then made his selections. The Four Seasons started to sing "Walk Like A Man" as Scott crossed the room to face his old nemesis, the Eight Ball Deluxe pinball machine.

His pulse quickened as he inserted his quarter and the machine bleeped and blooped to life. Scott pulled back the plunger and launched his first silver ball. For one sweet moment, all his worries faded into the background as he devoted laser-like attention to the game before him. Unfortunately, things went south quickly. The first ball ricocheted around the upper bumpers a few times before plummeting straight between the flippers, and the second ball survived only slightly longer. It was no surprise that his skills would be rusty, but he had hoped his young body still possessed the muscle memory and reflexes he had honed on the machine so many years ago. Then again, sucking at pinball was well down on the list of things he needed to be concerned about at the moment. By the time Frankie Valli screeched his final "wooo", Scott had already squandered his fifth ball.

As Scott was lamenting his poor performance, the Galaga wizard beside him shouted victoriously, "High score!" He jumped up and down excitedly, grabbing his jeans by the belt loops to hitch them up before his entire ass was exposed. He raised a pudgy arm in the air, hoping for a high five from Scott, who smiled mildly and gave the other guy's palm a weak slap.

As the player excitedly entered his initials on the game's leader board, Scott said flatly, "Just remember, someday someone will beat that score, and then eventually you'll get old and die."

"Jeez, man, thanks for nothin'," the videogame player said sourly, looking back at his initials on the screen, reveling in his accomplishment.

Scott decided he wasn't in the mood to stick around for the rest of his songs. He waved goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Galaga and left the restaurant just as the singer on the jukebox offered the advice, "If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife."

The air was chilly and the wind had picked up as Scott stood outside Galaga's, trying to decide where to go next. As he rubbed his hands on his upper arms to warm them, he noticed the entry stamp from the Rusty Nail on the back of his left hand, and Phillipe's address and phone number written on the palm. Lost in thought as he contemplated his options, Scott didn't notice the tall young man who walked past him, stopped in his tracks several steps later, and turned around. "Mitchell?"

Hearing his last name, Scott looked toward the speaker. The moment Scott caught sight of the man, memories related to him began to bubble to the surface of Scott's consciousness. "Hey, Derek," he said with a tone of familiarity.

"Whoa, man, I hardly recognized you," said the six-foot-six, broad-shouldered swim captain, dressed in a gray sweatshirt and shiny track pants. The glow from the street lamps bounced off his gleaming shaved head, the harsh shadows making his broodingly handsome facial features seem menacing. "What are you wearing, anyway? You goin' to a costume party or somethin'?"

Scott nodded. "Or somethin'."

Derek took that as a "yes", and bent down toward Scott's ear to inform him confidentially, "Hate to be the one to break it to you, but your costume looks kinda...faggoty."

"Uh-oh. Really? I'll make a note of that," Scott said with mock surprise, but the "mock" part sailed over Derek's head, which in his case was a substantial leap.

"No problem. Figured you oughta know," Derek said. "So, where were you at practice today? I called your place and the guy said you moved out."

Until this moment, Scott had no idea there had been swim practice today, but Derek's mention of it caused that memory to pop instantly into his brain like a text message. "Guess I must have forgot. This weekend has been...tumultuous."

Derek could barely mask his exasperation. "What is your deal lately, Mitchell? When you said you wanted to do that play, we cut you some slack, but you gotta meet us halfway. Being one of the Swimming Eagles requires commitment. You can't keep flakin' out on us like this. It's disrespectful to me and the rest of the guys. Remember," he said, pointing to Scott, "there's no 'you' in team."

Normally, Scott would have corrected a blooper like that, but Derek's words had faded to background noise. Scott was busy mentally undressing his towering teammate, his newly arrived memories filling in the gaps for the parts of his body that weren't visible. Scott could clearly envision specific details like Derek's succulent deltoids, his outie belly button that resembled a kernel of popcorn, the mole at the base of his sternum that looked like a third nipple. It wasn't just visuals that Scott could now access. He could vividly recall the considerable effort it took to will himself not to get hard in Derek's presence in the locker room and at meets, for fear that Derek and the rest of the team would notice him boning up in his swimsuit and think he was, to use Derek's word, "faggoty".

Yet Scott felt no such concern now as his eyes lingered on Derek's sweatshirt and the way it clung tight to his body, emphasizing the immensity of his pecs and the wide "V" of his lats. Scott gave his cock full permission to plump inside his shorts, not caring whether Derek or any passerby on the street might spot his increasingly unmissable bulge. Scott was in no mood to listen to a lecture on the virtues of teamwork and the spiritual healing properties of chlorinated water. Right now, Scott was just horny as fuck.

"Yo! Mitchell! Are you listening to me?", Derek barked, jolting Scott out of his reverie.

A sense of serenity swept over Scott as he allowed himself at last to surrender to the urges he had been fighting against for so long. It was as if ominous thunderclouds had been looming over his head his entire life, and he had spent fifty years (and a day) waiting for the bolt of lightning that would punish him for his thoughts, a punishment that never came. Now, at last, beams of sunlight had broken through the gloom, brightly illuminating his path forward. He clapped a hand on Derek's massive arm and smiled. "Derek, I'll see ya 'round."

As Scott began to walk away, Derek shouted after him. "Wait, where are you goin'?"

Without looking back, Scott loudly declared, "I've finally committed to my team."