Hard Candy

35

THE BAR had one of those giant-screen TV sets suspended in a corner. I ordered a vodka and tonic, telling the barmaid not to mix them. Sipped the tonic.

Some pro football game was about to start. Three guys in pretty matching blazers were talking about it like they were about to cover a border dispute in the Middle East. "This is going to be a war," one of the white announcers said. The black announcer nodded, the way you do when you hear irrefutable wisdom. The guys along the bar murmured agreement. Sure, just like the War on Drugs. If it was really going to be a war, one team would blow up the other's locker room. The Mole was right- we could never be citizens. Where I was raised, there's no such thing as a cheap shot.

"What do you see as the key to this match-up?" one of the announcers asked.

The guy he asked said something about dee-fense. Chumps. The key is the team doctor. The only war in pro football is chemical.

The barmaid leaned over to ask me if I wanted a refill, her breasts spilling out of the top of her blouse. I thought of Candy and her silicone envelopes. What's real?

Michelle tapped me on the shoulder. She'd changed to a red-and-black-striped skirt that pinched her knees close, the hem just peeking out under a black quilted jacket with wide sleeves. Her hair was piled on top of her head, most of the makeup gone. She looked fresh and sweet. I left a ten-dollar bill on the bar and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Nobody watched us leave- it was kickoff time.