Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she whispers back.

“You okay?” I ask, wondering why she is whispering.

“Yeah. Dr. Rosen’s still asleep.”

I guess when you’re ninety-four, the rules about when you should wake up on Saturday are even looser.

“Thanks for setting me up with Becca last night.”

“Sure. So, do you have some place to stay tonight?” I’m whispering now, too. Don’t want to wake the old guy up.

“Yes. Dr. Rosen is letting me have the other guest bedroom.”

“The other one?”

“The night nurse, Monae, already lives here. She’s asleep right now, too, because she stays up all night, every night. Makes sure Dr. Rosen doesn’t fall again. That’s why he needs the twenty-four-hour awake care. He slipped and fell a while ago. Broke his hip on the terrazzo tile floor in the kitchen.”

I flinch. Terrazzo is hard stuff. Falling on it would feel like whacking your leg with a bowling ball.

“He went to rehab, did PT. He’s still not great on his feet, though. Balance issues. Neuropathy in his feet.”

“Did you get everything out of Mrs. Oppenheimer’s place?”

“Not yet. Monae’s brother and sister are going to help me move the rest. I don’t have much. Mostly clothes. Couple books.”

“When do you plan to do this?”

“Tonight. Shona won’t be home. She has big plans with the Rosens.”

Okay. Now I’m confused. “Mrs. Oppenheimer’s coming up here while you’re down at her place?”

“I’m sorry. Dr. Rosen’s son, David, is married to Judith who is Shona’s sister. Those are the Rosens that Shona’s seeing tonight; David and Judith.”

“So, did Mrs. Oppenheimer help you land this job with her sister’s father-in-law?”

She nods. I get the sense this is something else she just doesn’t want to talk about right now.

“Well, I’m free tonight,” I say. “If you guys need any help with the move.”

“What?” Christine shoots me a sly and dimpled grin. “It’s Saturday night, Danny Boyle. Don’t you have a hot date?”

“Nope. Not tonight.”

“Really?”

I hold up my hand like a Boy Scout. “Scout’s honor.”

“Good to know.”

Yes, I believe Christine Lemonopolous, the lovely Greek goddess, is flirting with me. Not that I mind. Hey, it’s Saturday. I’m off-duty. I have a pulse.

Feeling the need to blow off a little steam, I head over to the Sunnyside Playland Video Arcade.

Sunnyside Clyde, the small-time amusement park’s mascot, greets me. Clyde is this big, baggy-panted surfer dude with a huge ray-rimmed sun for a head who always wears dark sunglasses. I never understood why. If you’re supposed to be the sun, do you really need sunglasses? Why? In case you see yourself in a mirror?

Anyway, Sunnyside Clyde waves when he sees me because the guy sweating inside the giant foam rubber ball is another pal of mine, Josh Grabo.

“Hey, Danny,” his voice is muffled by his bright orange padding.

“Hey, Josh.”

“Clyde, dude. I’m on duty.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You doing anything tonight?” he asks.

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Bunch of us are having a kegger over at Mike Malenock’s place. Wanna come?”

“Sounds like fun,” I say, vaguely remembering when it really would’ve sounded that way. “But, well, I promised somebody I’d help them move their stuff tonight.”

“Well, if you guys get thirsty when you’re done with the move, come to the kegger. You goin’ in to check out ‘Urban Termination II?’”

“Thought I might.”

“Don’t worry, dude. I cruised by earlier. You’re still the high score. All three top spots.”

Josh and I knock knuckles. He’s wearing these big Hamburger Helper-sized white gloves. It’s like I’m hanging out with Mickey Mouse’s slightly seedier New Jersey cousin.

The video arcade game Urban Termination II is one of the many ways I hone the cop skill that, not to brag, has made me somewhat legendary amongst the boys in blue up and down the Jersey Shore. I have, shall we say, a special talent.

I can shoot stuff real good.

Sometimes, when we’re out at the firing range, Ceepak even calls me “Deadeye Danny.” Says I could’ve qualified as a Sharpshooter or Marksman if, you know, I had joined the Army first.

Inside Sunnyside Playland, I nail a bunch of bad guys with a purple plastic pistol and listen to the whoops and ba-ba-dings and the voice growling, “die sucker die” every time I blast a thug mugging a granny.

A crowd of kids gathers around me.

It’s fun.

For a full fifteen minutes.

I collect the winning tickets that spool out of the machine when I top my top score and hand them off to one of my fans, who only needs “two hundred thousand more points” before he wins a Walkman. Yes, a Walkman. The prizes at Sunnyside Playland aren’t what you might call contemporary.

Fun with a gun done, I grab an early dinner at The Dinky Dinghy, the seafood shack famous for its “Oo-La-La Lobster.” I go with a Crispy Cape Codwich because you don’t need to wear a bib when you eat it.

Then I head for home.

Christine Lemonopolous does not call. Guess she didn’t need my help moving her belongings out of Mrs. Oppenheimer’s McMansion.

I don’t go to Josh and Mike’s kegger, either. If I did, I might have to arrest myself for a D and D. That’s drunk and disorderly.

And Ceepak would hear about it. Probably on his police scanner two seconds after it happened.

Instead, I just go to bed.

Sunday morning, I resist the urge to swing by Dr. Arnold Rosen’s beach bungalow to check in with Christine again. Instead, I actually go to church, something I’ve started doing a little more often lately-even though my mom and dad aren’t in town to make me. They moved to Arizona a few years ago. It’s “a dry heat.”

I guess I go to church because of The Job.

The deaths I have witnessed.

The deaths I have caused.

After church, I head home, have a couple beers, watch baseball, order a pizza.

I spend a couple more minutes thinking about Christine. Wondering why I never noticed how hot she was before. But then I remember I only ever saw Christine when she was with Katie and gawking at your girlfriend’s girlfriends, saying stuff like, “Wow, check out Christine’s hooters,” would, basically, be stupid, not to mention rude.

I call my mom and dad in Arizona. My brother, Jeffrey, has moved out there, too. He’s at their house, smoking Turkey Jalapeno Sausages over pecan logs. I’m told they do this sort of thing in Arizona.

“When are you moving out this way, Danny?” he asks.

“ How about never? ” I want to reply.

But I don’t.

Instead, I give the answer I give every time we talk: “We’ll see.”

Eventually, after my brother tells me how awesome Arizona is and how I could make a ton of money managing his Berrylicious Frozen Yogurt franchise, we say good-bye.

I head to the fridge. Pound down my last beer.

Around nine, I fall asleep on my lumpy excuse for a sofa watching a movie starring Sylvester Stallone. Or Arnold Schwarzenegger. Maybe Bruce Willis.

Sometimes Sundays can do this to a guy.

Make you wonder what the heck you’re doing with your life when you could be pumping Berrylicious Frozen Yogurt into swirl cones and starting a family.

So I’m very happy when the clock radio goes off at 6 A.M. and Cliff Skeete’s DJ voice booms, “Rise and shine, people. It’s Monday morning. Time to put your nose back to the grindstone.”

And then, of course, he plays “Manic Monday” by the Bangles.

Me? I’m glad it’s Monday.

That means it’s Ceepak time.