flowered skirt

by Maurice Downes

Oh well, at least they won today. But what is the worth if you know that your team's attitude will only take them so far? The most important element of a soccer player's repertoire is intelligence. Fear. A good handle, an appreciation, of fear is necessary in all aspects of life. It keeps us from jumping off of buildings and deciding we can fly.

Between puffs of smoke Grant looked all over the bar to see who was looking at him. He didn't want anyone ugly looking at him; it was too much to think about. Is he one to attract ugly women and then in that case ugly people? For that matter, she couldn't be too interesting looking either, because that in and of itself took a longer time to decipher. A superficial interaction was all that could take place and therefore he needed a superficially beautiful woman to play this game with. At most the game resulted in a conversation.

She was airy and unobtrusive and given to the suggestion of getting together. Easily given; all he was was a face and a smile in a dark bar one night. She seemed nice and when they spoke she answered his questions. That she didn't force him to ask the all-important question more than once was a sign that if they didn't have much to say to each other when they really met, she'd at least be accommodating enough to fake it. They'd probably kiss, because she liked the idea of him.

He was early, Grant, and he knew everyone who worked here. She'd be on his home ground, as he put it. She had about ten minutes.

The Metrostars need a defensive captain. That's what Grant thought, along with several of his friends none of them there that night. The captain of a team is almost never a striker, and for good reason. Strikers are too flashy to take a leadership role, elated hero one day and out for 6 weeks the next. They can't even wade through their own controversies, so how can they hold up the team's? Midfielders are usually given the role of on field chief. They tend to stay with the team the longest and are admired for doing all that goddamned running, but they're already seen as leaders anyway. That's no fair, picking an already leader to be a leader; analogous to going with a Southern Baptist governor for president. When a defenseman is made into captain, then that's something special. Nobody cares about the defense. Therefore a great one, a popular one, has worked that much harder. Understand? Who's your favorite bassist?

Grant could only name his favorite under great duress.

Sheila absolutely hated soccer which came up the second time Grant ran into her. The very same bar and four months past. Grant thought she was a horrible, attractive bitch. Sheila didn't like soccer, or sports in general, but could only see herself liking basketball.

Basketball.

In basketball, it doesn't take them something around 4 or 5 hours to score. She was aware that the matches were only 90 minutes long (she really wasn't, but to keep the argument moving along she acted the part). The players were all husky, ugly Europeans who had teeth missing (now she apparently was talking about hockey, Grant thought). Basketball players had attitude, she dated one (a star minor-league player) and he talked loud, and ordered food loud. He was always slick and dressed just as slick. He was a loud, sloppy lover.

Sheila did performance art when the question turned from sports, something Grant was sure she didn't fully understand. She said that she just became the performance piece and existed inside her own world for all of... two hours... a few hours. However long the performance. She was going to say a few weeks, but she couldn't bring herself to. It took a special person to understand a world like hers. To understand her special place.

She's cried during performances. She was absolutely sure of this. How could she not?

Sheila showed up with some of her people. God had refused to give him this one night, apparently, in addition to a whole host of other things God had done to Grant lately. Sheila was attractive that night and her bunch of people was very attractive as well. They all smiled and laughed a lot and on occasion looked at his lonely side of the room. Sheila pointed him out and Grant could tell because she wasn't very adept at being discreet.

Actually, she wasn't really intelligent enough to be discreet. It's a gift that most of us adopt at an early age, but she's not us. Grant knew she wasn't intelligent and had meant to tell her that during a fight, but didn't. He just didn't.

The new girl still had time to show up, but she was still late.

God, for something or someone that didn't exist, had far too much pull over life, felt Grant. He, he being Grant, had made the wise choice to forgo belief in a higher power back in college where such things could be construed as an anachronism. Then later he completed the set piece when he refused to join his mother for Sunday service during a hilarious weekend back at his childhood home. It was beneath him. God was a juvenile idea invented to scare schoolchildren and housewives. Was God the hardest on people who professed to not believe in him, or her, or it (him, since "it" was far too new-age in his, Grant's, opinion)? Grant couldn't even possibly be on God's list. Surely there were bigger fish to fry and worse infidels. If Grant gave God his due in life, then he wouldn't appear nearly as interesting. It was the best for everybody.

Sheila smiled at him and made her way over to her table. She was stupid and bold. That's what Grant thought, the bitch.

This was different, and it was too much to understand. Sheila closed her eyes between thrusts and then stared at what looked like directly into his eyes, but was actually the ceiling, and then would close her eyes again. Repeat, repeat. It was like she couldn't be bothered, but of course she could because she wouldn't be in this position if she couldn't. Everything was fine, he was completely absolved thus far. No, no he wanted her to look at him. He just did, so he decided to slam into her midsection for the next few minutes. She smiled at him and then just closed her eyes for the duration. He, on the other hand, was very uncomfortable with the arrangement. Why couldn't Chelsea learn to pick up their man at the back?

They lost and he lost.

In the beginning of that night, before their third date and before their first encounter, Grant took on English Football over a few pints with friends. People that wouldn't be caught dead investing in the American side of things; shouldn't they just stick to their own sports, and other insults. Chelsea was their club, because they were from whatever part of London that they played, and Grant could do worse than have someone to yell at the TV with. But this team clearly had no concept of defense and relied on an overly pretty style of attack. Damn fashionable clubs without fashionable results. Sad, there would be no cup this year.

One of their girlfriends came up in conversation, but it was clearly up to Grant to lighten up the party. The girl he was seeing, not dating, cried during performances. Ha, ha, ha. No, she really did, and her performances were very intense and not anything at all humorous. Ha, ha, ha. So, so one of them says, and it was a truly great set up, think she'll cry during "that" performance? "That" performance.

He felt guilty for laughing at such a thing and plied such an emotion into an entrance. She agreed.

How could someone feel romantic with this shit outside? Was what Grant wondered looking at the oncoming storm. Tiny droplets of water that never really made the city seem romantic and wonderful and mysterious. Instead they made everything stink, he was completely sure. This was Wednesday and the trucks wouldn't come by to pick up the garbage until very, very late into Thursday's wee hours. Water was now running off this garbage onto his once beloved streets. Romantic fucking rain in the city.

Sheila waved over at him and he waved back, so she immediately went over to the bar to get herself another light beer. She was wearing the silk flowered skirt that she got for returning his sweater which was a birthday gift that she should've just tried harder to appreciate but couldn't because it just wasn't her size and was probably for somebody else even though she could return it and get anything she wanted. It hugged her ass and made "swish"-ing noises as she walked; the small purple flower patterns on it rose and dipped on her curves. Black clog shoes. Fishnet stockings.

Grant angrily drank through a fantasy and checked his watch. She was being very late now even though she had minutes to show up. Even if he was being irrational and that was none of her damn business.

Grant was such a classic name. Or what it classical? She couldn't decide, but it was such a stout, sure name. He seemed like such a brilliantly individual person, he did. All literary and into soccer, football, as he was. He nearly went into a fit, or did, she couldn't tell. When she called it soccer. How fascinating that he was into soccer and was as American as could be! And so collegiate-looking. Like a professor-in-waiting, this stout, bookish, guy that she just ran into; how lucky.

She tipped the cabby 5 bucks and walked into the wrong bar and the wrong bar again. It all looks the same in this area, she was completely sure of this. He was so different from what she had come to depend on lately. Rock stars and actors, the usual unreliable bunch.

He was an actor, too, she forgot. Now, where was the place?

Grant is now at their table.

"This used to be my guy" "Yeah, I told you all about him" "Yeah, we're still good friends, aren't we?" Big hug, large. "Awwwww" "Yeah, you guys know each oth... the spring production. Right." "Still at the same place I think, yeah? Uh huh." "Well he didn't like her, man, nobody likes Ms. Ple... well, she can't direct, but she calls herself a director." "Sleeping her way to the middle" "Oh stop, you're so bad. He doesn't have a crush on Grant. Didn't that guy move back to San Diego?"

"So when you're about to have sex with a guy... oh you don' t mind, do you? Ok, I'll use hook up."

He hadn't said a word because he willingly jailed himself. Only a complete fool does something like that. Fool.

"Well, I was good because I only did it at, like, 17, and I waited crazy long too." "Ha! You slut." "So this guy comes up and gives me his number, but he's been playing, like, hard to get." " For months. I think he has a string of chicks and I'm not down with being one of the many

It was the last day of the season, and Barcelona was facing one of two distinct realities: lose or tie and face mid-table obscurity and the ignominy of millions of fans around the world… or, score one final goal in the dying five minutes and be welcomed into the regal society of European Championship football next year. They had played a good game that day, but if they couldn't put this together they'd be asking for forgiveness from some of the most unforgiving fans in the world. There was no question: in these last five minutes there would have to be some kind of decisive action, a idiotic heroism. The right wing brings the ball down into their enemy's side and was looks for options. Nothing on the left, no time to play it back for hope of a building attack. He sees Rivaldo hovering on the edge of the box and decides to leave it up to the world's best. He swings in a high floating cross that's more of a hopeful thought than anything else: there's not enough time to really build up anything, but why not try something. Rivaldo catches it on his chest and lets it float a little. Time slows; if there isn't time to win the game there's time to end famously and perhaps beg for the fan's adoration next year. Remind them of who's playing. As the ball starts to drop and defenders swarm in around him, Rivaldo takes in a quick breath and flips back for a bicycle kick, that famous move where one or both of your legs suddenly flies over your head as you fall backwards.

Goal.

Sheila continued being a bad person. Just talking. Whether she enjoyed this or she was just stupid.

Grant smiled, and smiled, and smiled some more. He looked out of the window and wondered when his turn was coming, and how did God let her have this many shots at him. He didn't hate God, he really didn't. It was a bit unfair. When he, Grant, jabbed, The Lord God Almighty hit with a combination.

That sounded poetic enough. Now he, Grant, knew how he'd end his next monologue.

"I feel like there is no communication." Sheila felt that there was no communication and Grant couldn't be bothered. Couldn't be bothered to confirm or deny. "You don't give a… shit about anything." Grant really didn't, and Sheila wasn't even a nuisance at this point… you learn to put up with a bevy of idiosyncrasies when all of your friends are "creative". She was a bore, she most certainly was. For example, she hated cursing, but this was all she could think of to draw him away from himself. How boring, how typical. She'd constantly make scenes in public about his Irish mouth, even though he was Welsh, and then on occasion, such as a break-up, she'd curse to prove how in control she was. He could've written her, and he wasn't a particularly good writer.

He watched Owen score to prove a point himself: Everything she said was inconsequential and he needed her out. "You are such a fucking…loser". Rewind, he had to see that again. Where was England before the piercing runs of Michael Owen? The defensive steadiness of one Sol Campbell.

"You say something, honey?" England 5, Germany 1.

One week later they found themselves rolling around on the Oriental rug that he stole from the block's garbage pick-up some time back. He furiously brushed and sanitized it the morning after he got it home and a few days afterwards. He hadn't had time to remove the athletic shirt before his teary-eyed divorcee did whatever it was that made him immediately able to perform and forced him to the floor. She held him tightly from the bottom, a final show of affection. Every thrust he looked longlingly and with sorrow at her face and knew that this was the last time, even though it was really one of the last times with her. She returned his glance, which he found pretty sad.

She still had tears in her eyes.

Grant felt horrible about the tickets that were in his jeans, but he had someone to meet in an hour. Hopefully Sheila would be finished cleaning by the time he came back.

Just no way he could face her, not with someone else.

McManus Spirits and Fine Food. It had the smell of a long ago time in this proud section of this proud city. It said "Established 1853"... actually, it said "Est. 1853" because the new owner thought it spaced the sign out better. The story went that a group of Irish dockworkers rescued the Mayor of the city when his ship pulled into bay and caught on fire in a freak gunpowder reaction. The Mayor was so impressed by the show of bravery (one suffered third-degree burns!) that he rewarded the dockworkers with the key to the city. The city also raised a "Thank You" of 10,000 for the group of men who were so brave as to give their lives for the Mayor. Craig McManus, one of the Irish dockworkers, died later from injuries that he never could recover from. They decided to go into business for themselves and dedicate the bar to his memory.

At least that's the rumor. Eric Al-Sayeed, the current owner is unsure whether to believe it or not. Hearing the story inspired him to buy the place. The more time passes, the less he decides to believe it.

His proprietors believe it. It's why he doesn't, it gives him that slight edge.

"My date's here"

Grant said it loud enough to hurt her, Sheila, before he hugged her goodbye and moved to the front door. He would've given Sheila a kiss on the cheek, but... you know. Circumstances were closed-in as it was, and he didn't need his date asking questions he couldn't be expected to answer.

By all means she must not question Grant at all during the night. That was his rule.

"Hey, Kris"

"How are you Grant."

Full on the lips. She had soft lips and her smile was pleasant enough even though she was late.

In the field of engineering, the best result is often 0. Zero energy loss, zero resistance... zero. No unnecessary output, and men in white coats with haggard attitudes have been striving for zero as long as they could tell that's what they were looking for. This is what Grant yearned for. No unnecessary questions, no unnecessary striving to make a point. His quest, his mission ws 0 or as close to that number as possible.

"I looked up Barcelona, since I knew you liked that soccer team"

Lord Almighty, if she cared who that woman was, she didn't show it.

"Oh yeah?" Grant smiled.

Kris (her real name was Jaclyn, but her nickname was Kris for a reason she only told close friends) wore a low-cut black blouse and black stretch pants. She absent-mindedly rubbed her hips when she was deep in thought. Or pretending to be. She whisked hair away from her shoulders on the minute. Hair that smelled like cherries. She was shorter, but more filled-out than Sheila.

"Tell me about Barth-eh-lona," he replied in the typically American way of overstressing the Catalan accent.

Sheila walked out with clog-steps not loud enough to register in Grant's ears. She hadn't had dinner yet with her friends.

Kris had posters of her favorite pop-stars all over the walls of her large midtown apartment. It was large, but a comfortable space which is a mistake that people who go for space in the city make. There will be space for things, but no love. You couldn't possibly spend extended time there, and seeing how most people he knew were weekend drug addicts, it seemed quite important to him to be able to spend at least a few days sobering up.

Naked, she looked like a college fantasy. She plodded around the apartment with a quiet authority and made sure to shoot glances at Grant now and then. She was to trap him and keep him a while. Now she fully appreciated football (not soccer) and his acting style, which she found a little abrasive at first.

Grant turned to his side and gazed out over the city. He found Sheila's building and fell groggy-eyed as he held Kris close.

Germany 8 - Saudi Arabia 0, and he fell asleep.

It was a great game.

--Maurice Downes (Werd up)