Baklava Blues

BAKLAVA BLUES

R. D. Angelo

Copyright © 2008 by R. D. Angelo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 1

I woke with a stupid grin on my face, hair askew. (I hadn’t restrained it with a rubber band the previous night; consequently, it was everywhere, including a few in and stuck to my mouth.) Within moments I was flying from the bed. I heard him! Mom, he called in that amazingly angelic tiny, little voice of his. Like always, as soon as he woke, mine was the name on his cute rosy lips—lips so much like his father’s.

As I cleared my bedroom door, reality began to set in like the slow ooze of caramel ice cream topping flowing from the jar. By the time I was in the loft, looking at his bedroom door, it hit me. It was a dream; he wasn’t there, and he likely wouldn’t be there tomorrow morning or the next. I still walked oh so slowly to the bedroom door, which was purposely kept closed these days.

As if expecting a gruesome four-headed, tentacle-covered monster to be on the other side, I opened it. Normally the brightness would be shocking. I’d painted it myself—sunshine yellow and outrageous Jimmy Neutron blue, or something like that. He had loved it. But now, in the soft glow of the rising sun, the room was virtually empty. All that remained were the antique metal bed (not designed with a five-year-old rambunctious hobbit in mind, but too sentimentally valuable and lovely not to show off), a child’s dresser, bookcases, and a nightstand.

His toys—stuffed animals, cars, drum set, and absolutely everything else that had said this was a gorgeous, boisterous little boy’s room was gone. His pri-pr-p-pig of a father had taken everything, including the bed linens and comforter with the smiling train on them.

I caught a sob that made it to the back of my throat, nearly escaping on my tongue. Phew, that was close! I will not cry—again! I purposefully turned around, leaving the door open. Perhaps it would be less painful that way. I won’t have to go beyond the center of the loft to see the current emptiness of the bedroom. Too bad, it had taken me numerous early-morning nightmares (would they be morningmares? daymares?) to realize this. Every morning since Sebastian had disappeared with his father seemed a replay of the previous one.

For some reason, my mind refused to accept their absence—at least my baby boy’s absence. I couldn’t give a rat’s posterior about the grand pubah of jackasses. But it is a cruel joke that every morning I awake seemingly oblivious to the fact that my estranged husband had taken my little boy with him when he went off to play superspy 007, retard, bunghole, jerk-off, etc. In fact, I hope dumbass is still working with nuclear material and has been exposed to the point that he glows at night. Hmm… isn’t it terrific how insulting him and wishing him painful, radiation-contaminated death makes me feel better?

I still wore my very revealing pajamas (skintight boy shorts and a tank top). I have always hated nightgowns and anything that would twist around my legs in the middle of the night. It reminds me of swimming in the ocean and getting caught in a bunch of slimy seaweed, only to be sucked down to a watery grave. I digress… and I very much was sporting a head full of Buckwheat-like hair. I slouched down the stairs.

I haven’t actually seen the hair yet, but believe me, I know these things. Having naturally curly hair that reaches to the center of my back, I don’t expect to wake up like the harlots in romance books—with long flowing tresses framing my face like a soft mane… blah, blah, blah. Gag me with a toilet brush! Instead I wake up with my hair matted to my head on one side and sticking out on the other like the Afro on that guy Carrot Top, with a few strands stuck to my lips and my eyes. I made it downstairs intending to make coffee, open the blinds, do some yoga, plot the death of my son’s father—oh, did I say that?

I actually hesitated on the stairs, thinking maybe I should get a robe. Naa, perhaps (read: hopefully) standing in front of my open windows with so very little covering, my self-proclaimed buff twenty-ninish-year-old body would deter some of my well-meaning neighbors. I hate to sound ungrateful, but one can only take so many looks of utter pity, and if I ever see another cookie again, I’ll spew all over the bearer of the offending dessert.

I slouched from window to window, opening the blinds. Did I mention that I am not a morning person? In fact, it was nothing short of a miracle that I was conscious at such a dreadful hour—predawn, ick! Yes, we all know why exactly I woke so early, but I don’t wish to think of that, at least not for a few more minutes. Disappointment etched deep frown lines in my face. Not really, but I was a little bummed when I opened the blinds in the formal living room. There was no one out at this hour to gawk at my scantily clad buff, sexy bod. Okay, I’m just trying to cheer myself up a bit. I’m not a completely vain and self-centered person.

As I walked, with a slightly less pronounced slouch, to the freezer for coffee beans, it occurred to me that I should have made coffee first. Already my day was off to a great start. Ingesting caffeine a total of two minutes earlier could only have benefited my dour outlook. I don’t think it’s necessary to say that I absolutely adore coffee. Doesn’t everyone in the free world, and the rest of it too? It is definitely the most important of all food groups.

Of course, it has to be made from fresh gourmet whole beans. I buy most of mine mail order, or used to. I perused my selection: Ethiopian, Tanzanian, French Roast, Espresso, Breakfast Blend, and something I couldn’t pronounce from the Dominican Republic. I settled on the expected—a smooth, flavorful Breakfast Blend.

I quickly ground the beans and hit the button that would manufacture my morning cup o’ salvation. Then, because I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet (who wants to ruin coffee with morning yuck mouth?), I ran upstairs and brushed with my boring manual toothbrush. The Neanderthal actually had the nerve to take my fancy rechargeable toothbrush with multiple heads and the little thing that shoots water at a pressure high enough to put out an eye. Maybe he’ll have an accident with it.

Finally I had my coffee. Life is good. I decided to do yoga and started the Good Charlotte CD that was in the player. I know, yoga is supposed to be relaxing, so who in her right mind would listen to a fast-paced young band screeching about the rich and famous while doing a warrior’s pose? Besides me, of course, well, I don’t know. Then again, maybe I don’t count, my state of mind being questionable at this very moment.

Anyway, how can people be so serious while doing positions called the downward-facing dog? My mind is not crawling through a sludge-filled gutter, but that sounds a little obscene to me. Yoga was a blast (not really), but I was done with it and facing my next dilemma—what to do now? More coffee! I poured the last of the pot into my Incredibles mug, turned off the machine, and left the empty carafe on the counter, rather than put it back on the hot burner.

I was bored at home with nothing to do on a beautiful hot summer Tuesday morning for a good reason. I was a teacher. I say was because two years of teaching kids with snot running down to their lips was enough to last me a lifetime, and I have no intention of returning next year, or ever. So I’m on summer break and permanent sabbatical at the same time. Had I known my dearly beloved was intending to leave me hanging out to dry, I would have planned to have another job as soon as the school year ended.

As it is, I am trying to sell the house, furniture, etc., in order to move to the sunny state of wrinkled people and palm trees—Florida. And, just to spite him, I intend to acquire a virile, hunka hunka burning young (as in twenty-two would be too old) Latino love!

It was about 8:30 a.m., so I decided to forgo a shower—yoga doesn’t cause me to work up much of a sweat—and head to the gym. Going to the gym recently has been an exercise in humility. Unfortunately, the gym where I work out is also the one that my former husband’s former agency pays for its employees to attend. It started out that the weenie’s co-workers would play twenty questions concerning his whereabouts and when I would be joining him.

How the cat escaped the bag, I’ll never know, but I presume it was by way of someone’s very big flapping mouth. Shortly after twenty questions became boring (and the truth was known), I started getting the pitiful I’m sorry you suck so much as a lifemate that your husband left you looks. I usually responded with a look that said, Suck? If I had a crowbar on me, you’d know what it’s like to consume all your meals by way of sucking them through a straw. Me violent? Never.

Still working on my last cup of coffee (I can’t believe that a maximum of two cups per day is recommended), I did away with the buckwheat look by wetting my hair and loading it with some mousse. What to wear? Normally I’m pretty modest, but still a bit miffed about my ex’s bombshell, I was doing everything I could imagine that would have bothered him. I picked out the shortest, tightest shorts I could find and a bright blue spaghetti-strapped Lycra top. I donned a small silver cross necklace to top it off.

Before the beast left, I would not have been seen in such an outfit, considering my physique to be less than perfect. Stress has this way of ruining one’s appetite though, and improving one’s figure. Within a week of the disappearing act, I was back to my college weight of 125 pounds. I’m only five feet and five inches tall, but I lift weights religiously, so a lot of that weight is muscle. I fit very nicely into a size 2.

So there is no confusion, I do not go to the gym to prowl for eligible men. I hate it when women do that and strongly dislike the women who do it. There is a time and a place for everything, and while in a gym, one should be working out, not being a slut.

Why the outfit then? To flaunt, not my C cups, but my muscles. I easily shoulder press forty-five-pound dumbbells, could probably max out with fifty-fives. I bench press 135, ten times without a spot, but I’ve pressed 160 once, with a spotter to keep me from crushing a rib or worse. Better safe than disabled! I often get a kick out of a male (usually a scrawny college or high school kid) struggling, unsuccessfully, to curl the same weight as me.

I headed downstairs to the pantry for a protein bar (my supply of which I had to replenish because you-know-who stole all the protein), then to the garage to greet my one love that would never leave me—a titanium gray Mazda RX-8.

He took the Sport Trac; I already miss it. Can’t exactly load the RX-8 full of new trees, plants, and shrubs for landscaping the yard. Sliding onto the leather seat, I was grateful that he didn’t take the RX-8 instead. The engine came to life with a purr. I’m reluctant to use such a commonplace cliché, but that is truly the sound my girl’s engine makes. After opening the garage door, which sounds a great deal like explosives leveling a skyscraper, I backed down the drive, put it in first, and screeched down the street.

Within a minute, I was back in front of the house. Ooops, forgot to shut the garage door. It happens. I have had a lot on my mind. And, if I hadn’t inadvertently left it open, it’s possible that I would never have noticed the dark sedan that followed me to the gym. The first time I reversed out of the drive, I noticed the car turn the corner behind me and begin to follow closely.

I didn’t think anything of it until I looped around the block to go back to my house. The driver seemed to be stuck between play, forward, and reverse. The car started to make a right turn behind me, then the driver, realizing that it would look suspicious, must have changed his mind. The car lurched to the left instead, nearly jumping the curb on his right side.

The second time I left my house, the sedan was nowhere to be seen, until I exited the subdivision. I’m disappointed that I didn’t spot his stationary hideout. In fact, the stalker/driver became much more careful. I didn’t notice him until I left Rancho del Volcan (the monstrosity of a community that I live in). He was careful to stay a couple cars behind me so as not to be made, again.

Other than the stalker, I arrived at the gym without incident in approximately eight minutes. How can a person who drives a 250-horsepower vehicle resist the temptation to use that raw, unadulterated power? I wouldn’t know. I was actually impressed that Mr. Stalker was able to keep up with me. I guess the sedan had an eight-cylinder engine, possibly even a police package.

Oh, there was that one inconsiderate but typical Albuquerque driver who, in his Dodge Neon, decided he wanted to go faster than sixty miles per hour (in a forty-five zone). Because there was no way to pass me, he consequently drove about two inches from the back end of my car. Do people really believe that will encourage another driver to speed up? Like, Hey, I’ll ride his butt, and to get away from me, he’ll go faster. I did consider slamming on the brakes, then accelerating, but decided against it for fear that the moron would actually hit me. Regardless of the fact that he would be completely, wholly at fault, it wasn’t worth the inconvenience.

So I gradually slowed to twenty-five miles per hour, much to his chagrin. He responded by sounding his horn, not unlike those attached to the miniature bicycles ridden by clowns at the circus. As he waved his arms in the air, I pondered his method of steering the car. We finally came to the light at Coors Road, where I would turn right.

He turned behind me and attempted to catch up in the lane to my right. Each time he came close, I downshifted and took off. I was getting annoyed. It’s rather difficult to steer, shift, and chew on cardboardlike protein simultaneously.

When I got in the left turn lane to head into the gym, I was at a standstill, and the now-irate driver of the Dodge Neon was finally able to give me the result of his bottled-up road rage. It manifested itself in the middle finger of his left hand. Fancy that! Okay, that was unnecessary, I realize that, but it was also very amusing, so I responded with a very large but fake smile and wave of my hand at the angriest Asian man I’d ever seen.

To my surprise, the gym was fairly empty. I said a quick prayer (not to see a single person I knew), grabbed my lifting gloves, and walked through the double glass doors to enter the domain of sweat, tears, steroids, cellulite, etc. You get the idea. I scanned my card that allowed me entrance and headed to the cardio machines. I got on an elliptical and began to run, kind of. Until now I hadn’t thought about what I was doing. Still can’t, but it’s a terrific no-impact way of burning a few excess calories.

I forgot to check the channel on the television, so I got on a machine directly in front of some stupid court show (I prefer CNN or MSNBC). I tried not to watch but found myself mysteriously drawn to it, like the mindless bugs drawn to those zapper lights. I was appalled at two brothers (is there a politically correct term for redneck?), who had definitely destroyed a fair number of brain cells in their thirty-odd years. Judging from their ample abdominal area, I’d guess that a gruesome death by alcohol claimed their little lives.

They ordered takeout from a small Chinese restaurant, claiming to have a coupon for an amount that was unusually low. When the delivery guy showed up, he said the manager wanted the coupon before he could give them the food. Foul words were exchanged, and as the delivery guy was returning to his vehicle, they pounced on him and beat him to a pulp. The delivery guy proceeded to sue for medical costs.

The really funny thing was that the two retards kept laughing at the delivery guy. Hey, Bubba, ain’t he pa, pa,—what’s that word—oh yah, pathetic? He delivers Chinese food for a living, Buford said, making slant eyes like a politically incorrect six-year-old. "At least I got a job changin’ oil (pronounced awl) down yonder at the Jolly Quick Change, ahe, ahe, ahe."

The judge—fairly annoyed by now—addressed said delivery guy and told him to advise the defendants of what his day job was. It turned out the guy was a biochemical engineer. Talk about wiping the toothless grins off Bubba’s and Buford’s faces!

After finishing my cardio, I began to walk to the free weights. My plan was to work out my back and biceps. Then I heard Briann. I kept going, silently praying that the voice was actually calling someone else. I picked up my pace, and because I had my eyes squeezed shut (you know how it is, if I can’t see you, then you can’t see me!), I was oblivious to the obstacles in my path. My right foot slammed into a forty-five-pound plate that someone left on the floor; I stumbled, but gracefully managed not to fall. I call the move ode to an ostrich attempting flight.

This allowed the voice to catch up to me. It belonged to a former co-worker. A short gray-haired, bespectacled third-grade teacher stood hands on her hips, staring up at me. Mrs. Rigby, a truly feisty fifty-something in a crinkled outfit from the ’80s asked me all the regular questions: How’s your summer vacation? What are you up to? I hear you’re not returning, so sorry, why?

I was able to answer these questions without a problem, but then she had to go where no man (or woman) is permitted. She asked about Sebastian. So how is that handsome little boy of yours, will he be returning to us for school? Based on the look of concern that coursed through her kindly face, I think my feelings must have been pretty evident, written all over my face, as they say.

Still, I tried to lie—not a good idea when you’re talking to a veteran teacher. He’s fine, I said, trying to choke back a sob. If you’ll excuse me, I need a drink of water, it’s so dry in here. Take care, good to see you. You’ve ruined my day. I walked off.

I contemplated leaving but decided I needed to expend some pent-up frustration. I went to the pull-up bar and began strong. I did at least five complete pull-ups before it became difficult. I struggled with about three more, then got down to rest. I didn’t even feel like looking around. I used to enjoy people watching at the gym. I guess it’s kind of entertaining in a sad way, but today I merely counted the colors in the industrial carpet that covered the floor.

I was getting ready for a second set when I heard another voice, this one not grandmotherly at all. It was deep and raspy, like anyone who could possess such a voice must have swallowed a cubic yard of sand or smoked a few hundred cartons of cigarettes. That was a good set, can I help you out on this one?

No, I said and jumped up to the pull-up bar, not even looking in the direction of the new voice.

I think I did five and was slowly pulling myself up for a sixth when I felt hands on my waist. I realized he thought he was helping; I guess it was probably all the steroids affecting his brain, or maybe he had always been stupid. Maybe his mother dropped him on his head as a baby. I’m not very touchy-feely to begin with, so I certainly didn’t appreciate a complete stranger touching me without even asking. Furthermore, I think I had refused his aid when I said no.

Get your hands off me. As soon as the paws were gone, I jumped off the bar and whirled to face my assailant. I was staring at a very large chest. Attached to the chest were two extremely defined, muscular, well-tanned arms with various intricate tattoos surrounding the upper parts. I felt like looking down to inspect the rest of the package, but I forced myself to look up instead.

He had a bit of a smirk on his face, a nice face at that. His eyes were so dark brown it was difficult to discern between the pupil and the iris. His lips were neither full nor thin, the lower lip slightly puffier than the upper. His cheekbones were high, but not so severe as to be feminine. His face was perfectly symmetrical, with the exception of a small curve to his aristocratic nose. I figured it had been broken. His lack of hair was a surprise. The bald thing was popular; it hadn’t grown on me, but he looked good anyway.

When he said Just trying to help, I wanted to point out the locations of the water fountains. He sounded as if he could really use a drink of water—or a gallon or three.

I think I said I didn’t want any help.

Actually all you said was no.

I was baffled. What else could no have meant? Okay, no was an insufficient response for a brainiac like yourself. How’s this: Get away from me, leave me alone, and don’t ever touch me again, unless you’d like a few broken fingers. Buh bye.

You have potential, you really work out hard. I snorted. You obviously have some issues, but it would be my pleasure to help you out.

Helloooo, are you hard of hearing? I said this while faking sign language. I hoped there were no deaf exercisers in the gym today. Is this guy hardheaded or what?

Afraid you can’t handle working out with me?

Puleeease! This guy doesn’t even know me, where does he get off making a remark like that?

Fine, if I work out with you today, do you promise to leave me alone forever and always and for eternity?

Sure. You will change your mind. He winked, and the smile on his face was so big I thought it might freeze that way. After an hour or so with me, his smirk would vanish.

Then let’s go Mini-Me, I said as I mounted the pull up bar again.

My name is Jacob, and nothing about me is miniature.

Hmm . . . either he’s insecure about something, or he’s trying to intrigue me—done. Briann, wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but the truth is I’ve known you a total of four minutes, and already you’re a pain in the rear. My man-hating instincts were coming out full force.

You’ll change your mind, he told me as his very large but somehow not too rough bear paws held me around the waist to help me complete a total of twelve pull-ups.

Thanks. I said it as deadpan as possible; I didn’t want to show him how geeked I was. Twelve! Cool, I’m awesome; you are a girlie man!

"You required little assistance. If you could work out with a partner, you would be doing twice the pull-ups you do now in a short time.

He grabbed the bar (his toes still on the floor) and proceeded to show me up so badly I almost left. I quit counting at forty pull-ups. Guess you don’t need my assistance.

"Not for this, but I can think of a few situations in which I might beg for your assistance."

I was speechless. Was that a come-on? I’m clueless. I hadn’t dated in about ten years. Are men really that forward nowadays? Still puzzling at his overt flirting, I barely managed to give him an I hate men and will soon be founding an Albuquerque chapter of Man Haters of America look. He had the gall to not only smirk but to laugh!

Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I am not interested.

So why are you here?

I’m here to work out, Einstein!

Why do you happen, at this very moment, to be standing here with me? He wasn’t smirking, but he was looking at me intensely.

Because you challenged me, and I make it a point not to turn down a challenge.

You are free to go. I reluctantly withdraw the challenge. I will miss your delightful company.

Has anyone—no, I should rephrase that. Just how many hundreds of people have told you that you are an absolute, unadulterated, first-class, arrogant, cocky jerk? I turned and walked away. I must have left him speechless because he didn’t say a word. I was torn between screaming and pummeling him, but I refused to leave the gym. He would think himself the responsible party.

I tromped to the pull-down machine and began to pull down a weight that was far too heavy for my frame. I nearly gave myself a hernia. When I reached out to adjust the weight pin, I saw that it was at 140 pounds. I quickly moved it to just over half that. Frankly, I can’t believe I was able to pull down 140. Shows you how beneficial adrenaline is and explains why great-grannies can lift cars off children.

I halfheartedly did about twelve sets for my back and decided to finish up with an exercise for the latissimus dorsi muscles, or, in gym talk, the lats. I couldn’t find the single handle needed to do it. I looked on the racks that held the bars, looked on all the machines in my area, and finally spotted one at the cable machine. Guess who was there? My favorite cue-ball head, Jacob. I wavered, but finally sauntered over and, without looking at him, said Are you using this? as I bent to pick it up.

Saving it for you, my dear.

I’m not your dear. And on the note of that very witty retort, I left. I finished my back workout with little zeal, making a point of not looking around. I seriously doubted I’d be sore tomorrow. It turned out to be a pathetic attempt at working out. I didn’t do a single curl so I had no woosy boys to make fun of and brighten the day. And it’s all Jacob Shmacob’s fault. Who says name calling is childish?

I bought a protein drink, inhaled it, and left the gym like a puppy with her tail between her legs, head down. I did not want to see Jacob again—ever. I was about to open the door when I noticed a black sedan parked across and two cars down from my car. There was a person sitting in the driver’s seat. It looked remarkably like the car and driver that had followed me from home. I went back to the counter and asked Lisa, the clerk, if she could let me out a back door. I needed her assistance because otherwise I’d set off the alarm. I guess they’re concerned about people leaving with machines on their backs.

I walked around the north side to the front of the building. I tried to be casual, hoping he was watching the front door through his rearview mirror. I was walking up toward the passenger side of the sedan; my car was on the opposite side of my position. I hoped to surprise my pervert stalker. Apparently he wasn’t very good at surveillance. He nearly jumped through the roof when I pounded on the passenger-side window. It was kind of funny. I opened the passenger door and leaned in.

Listen, pervert, find some other poor sap to follow around. If I see you again, I’m calling the cops, and my friend Sammy is going to do some damage to your car. Sammy was the name I, in that very moment, bestowed upon my tire iron.

He was gangly, pale-faced (possibly from messing his pants), probably tall, but I couldn’t be sure with him sitting. He wore Harry Potter glasses and had a mess of dirty blonde hair that stuck out in every direction. He really didn’t fit the stalker/pervert profile. He kept stuttering. Bu-bu-bu-bu, I’m from the ef— . . . I left before I heard him finish a sentence. It was only about 11:30 a.m., but I figured if I stuck around to hear his story it would be nighttime before he finished, what with the stuttering and all. That was refreshing. It’s not often that a girl gets to tell off a stalker geek.

Time for some lunch. Protein does not stick to one’s ribs. I got in my car and went south through the parking lot to my favorite supplier of stuffed sopapillas. Mmmmm was the best description of the experience of eating a Yoly’s stuffed sopapilla. I absolutely adored the chicken. On more than one occasion, I’d come close to proposing to several of the young men who worked there. I’d even considered bribing them with money—when I had money.

I ordered two number 11s from the grinning gigantic guy with a receding hairline. I patiently waited the few minutes it took them to prepare my feast for a queen, and when they called my number, I almost skipped up to the counter.

I resorted to paying the whopping five dollars and change with plastic. Like I said, money’s scarce these days. Yoly’s doesn’t have a seating area, so I rushed to my car, cranked on the air, and pulled the yummy stuff out of the bag. I devoured about 750 calories primarily consisting of fats and carbs in about four minutes. Prissy eater I am not.

Completely sated, with my eyes at half-mast, I drove home. This drive was relaxed and averaged at speeds of ten below the speed limit. When I arrived, I was aghast to see the front door of my neighbor’s house open. I willed my stupid garage door to open faster. It wouldn’t. I began to pull into the garage when I heard her. Briann, Briann, what you doing? I looked into my