Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

Ninety minutes later, when Beer Helmet stumbled into her for a third time, it didn’t seem to be turning out the way I’d planned. I grabbed the asshole’s wrist and swung him around to face me.

“Apologize,” I said.

He didn’t. Instead, he tossed her a dismissive “she’s nobody anyway” look and started to turn away. I threw a left. Behind it was the power of my loathing for beer helmets, Carrot Top, Jackass, and all the rest of the jackasses. The punch caught nothing but air. Beer Helmet was already on the floor, clutching his balls and writhing in agony. The point of Yolanda’s Tony Lamas had scored a direct hit.

Beer Helmet’s buddies moved toward us but then backed off as two bouncers plowed through the crowd. They must have seen the whole thing because they didn’t throw us out. Instead, they gave Yolanda a high five, yanked the jerk to his feet, and dragged him off.

“My hero,” I said.

“Just a little somethin’ you pick up,” she said, “when you’re raised on the West Side.”

Beer Helmet’s ejection seemed to sober the crowd, or at least settle it down. A few minutes later, Buddy and his band strutted out. I put my arms around Yolanda’s waist, and she let me keep them there, leaning back against me as we swayed to the music. That drew hard stares from the jocks and their dates. Blues fans are mostly white these days, and Boston is far from a postracial town. Except for Buddy and the band, Yolanda was the only black person in the place.

Buddy played not one, not two, but three encores. By the time he was done with a ten-minute version of “Slippin’ In,” we’d shouted our throats raw, and Yolanda’s body had been pressed against mine for more than an hour. Buddy wasn’t coming back for a fourth time, so the bouncers cleared the room for the second show. As we strolled out arm in arm onto Lansdowne Street, both of us were hungry, although not necessarily for the same thing.

On the sidewalk, one of the bouncers tapped my shoulder. “Hey, pal,” he said. “Your lady can work security here anytime.”

Yolanda laughed out loud. I hoped it was working as a bouncer that struck her as funny, but it might have been the idea that she was my lady.

I was worried about where we’d be heading for grub. I didn’t figure Yolanda for a chili dog/cheese fries kind of gal, and I was short after shelling out for the tickets. As Yolanda turned west, I tugged her arm.

“The parking lot’s the other way.”

“Yeah, but it smells better in this direction, and a sista needs to eat.”

“This is Lansdowne Street, Yolanda. The main food groups here are beer, grease, and Tabasco.”

“Yum,” she said, and kept walking.

We strolled past Fenway Park, and at the corner of Brookline Street, she stopped in front of the Cask’n Flagon.

“Will this do?” she said. “I’ve been thinking about their cheese fries all day.”

And I fell for her a little more.

“So the show was tight, huh?” she said as we settled into our seats under a black-and-white photograph of a young Ted Williams. “I coulda listened to that brutha play all night. And damn, he’s still ripped. The way he moves, it’s hard to believe he’s seventy-four.”

She pulled her nose out of the menu and locked eyes with me. “Thanks, Mulligan. I forget to do things like this until someone reminds me that there’s a world outside the law office.”

“I could remind you more often.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Suddenly, her menu was more interesting.

“I would never have pictured you in a place like this, Yolanda, but you look right at home.”

The waiter was a young black man with more muscles than he needed for the job. “Miss Mosley-Jones!” he said. “It’s been a long time. Having the cheese fries and two sloppy burgers again?”

“Damn right,” she said. “It’s my day to be bad.”

I certainly hoped so.

The waiter turned his eyes to me, and his wattage went down a notch.

“The same,” I said. “And bring us a pitcher of Samuel Adams.”

“I didn’t realize you were a regular,” I said after the waiter left.

“I’ve only been here once. Last summer I got to missing the Cubs, so I caught a Sox game at Fenway. It reminded me so much of Wrigley I got a little weepy. After nine innings, I’m always starving, so I followed the crowd here.”

“You’ve been here once, and the waiter remembers your name?”

“You don’t think I’m memorable?”

“I think you’re unforgettable.”

Just then, my cell vibrated. I slipped it out, checked the number, and put it back in my pants pocket.

“Nothing important?”

“Just a blast from the past.”

“The almost-ex?”

“How’d you guess?”

“What’s she like? What kind of woman ends up with you?”

The phone started vibrating again. I pulled it out, flipped it open, placed it in the middle of the table, and pressed speaker.

“Mulligan.”

“You… fucking… bastard!”

“Good evening to you, too, Dorcas.”

“Who are you out whoring with tonight, you sonuvabitch?”

“I’m having dinner with a friend right now, Dorcas. Sorry, but don’t have time for one of our friendly chats.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, you goddamn-”

I flipped the phone shut and put it back in my pocket.

“Damn,” Yolanda said. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“Married her. She’s never forgiven me for it.”

“Gotta be more to it than that.”

“She’s unstable, Yolanda. She needs help.”

“So get her some.”

“I’ve tried, but she refuses. She thinks the rest of us are the crazy ones.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

We fell into an uncomfortable silence. Maybe introducing the object of my affection to Dorcas wasn’t the smoothest move. The silence lengthened while I tried to think of something that would drown out the sound of my almost-ex’s screech.

“She can make me sound like a monster,” I said. “I’m not. I’m just a regular guy who made a bad choice.”

Yolanda smiled, and the mood lightened. “You’re not a regular white guy, Mulligan.”

“I’m not?”

“Uh-uh. Most of them try to impress me by quoting the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, telling me how many black friends they have, and dropping the names of rappers, getting most of them wrong.”

“Gee,” I said. “And to think I was just about to tell you how much I dig Jay-Z Hammer.”

She threw back her head and laughed. When the waiter finally showed up with our food, we spent the next half hour slurping, pulling fries from a gooey mountain of cheese, and licking our fingers. I loved watching her be so unlawyerlike.

Once we’d picked the cheese fries plate clean and drained the last of the beer, she didn’t look any thicker than when we came in. I wasn’t sure I could get through the rest of the evening without unbuttoning my pants. And not in a good way.

On the drive home, we listened to more blues on the radio and talked about the show, the Cubs, and the Red Sox; but everything I said really meant “Please let me kiss you.”

“Can’t tell you how great this was, Mulligan,” Yolanda said as she pulled the Acura into the space next to my Bronco. “I felt like a human being instead of a lawyer for a change.”

“So where should we go next time?”

She turned off the ignition and turned toward me. “You gonna make me say it again?”

“You don’t date white guys.”

“You got it.”

“No one would have to know. I promise not to go public.”

“It’s late,” she said. “You should probably get going.”

We got out of the car, and I walked her to the door. She unlocked it, and when she turned around to say good night, I was right there, my face close. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me hard and quick. Then she pulled away, went through the door, and closed it. I’d been summarily dismissed.