i am sab
02-19-2007, 02:28 AM
Sometimes you wanna go
by Sab
part 1/3
Autumn's been cold and so, in recent weeks, before he locks up, Sam has been taking a little time in the empty bar to exercise Duke, the toughest, lovingest rottweiler in New England. Lately Duke's been feeling his age and Sam's vet, a nubile little number named Sheila, prescribed glucosamine but at $24 a bottle it doesn't seem to be doing a thing except making Sam's wallet easier to bend. He tosses a knotty rope and Duke, who had until that moment been napping quite peacefully under the player piano, peels both eyes open and trots diligently over to the chew toy. With equal diligence and the lumbering gait of a geriatric, he crosses the room to Sam and drops the rope, eyes bright and nocked tail wagging like a thumb. Sam grabs both sides of Duke's great massive head, and lays a kiss on the old boy's skull.
Duke's onset of arthritis coincided with a tightening in Sam's own knees, a seizing in his back and his hips that brings with it an old man's guttural and phlegmatic "yee-ahh" every time he stands up. "Whattaya think?" Sam asks, hoisting himself to his feet and tossing the rope again for Duke. "Think there's life left in us?"
Duke makes his way down the bar and into the corridor by the restrooms to retrieve his toy. Sam's pitching arm isn't what it used to be but he can still lob one over the plate now and again, and truthfully the night's exercise is as much for Sam as it is for the ten-year-old rott. Duke comes back with the rope, laboring a little over the riser, and Sam picks it up. "Mattingly at the plate," Sam says, winding up as far as the bursitis in his shoulder will allow. "Malone pulls back for the pitch. And --" He lets the toy loose and it hits the placard on his office door squarely with a hollow thump before dropping to the floor. "Steee-rike one!" This time when Duke brings the rope back he stops before the riser and sinks to the floor, resting his chin on the knots like a pillow.
"Don't get too comfortable," Sam says, heading to the coat rack to get his jacket and Duke's leash. He punches the code into the bar's alarm, hitches Duke to his leash, and they make their way out into the blustery Boston November night.
Sam loops Duke's leash loosely over his wrist and lets the big dog lead him out into Beacon Street. Just down the block, in the Back Bay sprawl, Sarah's in her mother's townhouse, having her hair styled or her makeup attempted. Or maybe they're done all that and are now drinking. Beer, maybe? Do girls drink the nights before their weddings? Sam can't remember. White wine, maybe, that sounded right. His little girl and his ex-wife drinking white wine five blocks away.
Sam has tomorrow off; Henry's got the bar and Carla's looking after her grandkids, so only Sofi's working, but Sofi once jackknifed a guy for leaving a lousy tip. Sam figures the bar's in good hands.
Duke is sniffing along some hedges, but any moles or badgers that might have been crawling about in there fled at the old boy's unsubtle approach. Duke sits down next to Sam's feet and lets out a low, asthmatic wheeze.
"Me too, buddy," Sam says, patting him on the head. They make it home, though home is now a condo south of Comm Ave and his vintage Corvette spends her long nights alone in a covered garage.
They take the elevator up, get some mail, bills and circulars, nothing. Sam drops his keys, bends down to unclip Duke from his leash, and the grateful dog scampers off to find an area of carpet to circle several times before settling upon it for a nap.
Sam opens the refrigerator and gets himself a club soda. It's only eleven, early enough to get in a date tonight, but Sam's more concerned about tomorrow. He wasn't going to bring one of his bimbos to his own daughter's wedding, but the idea of showing up stag gives him the willies. Carla had agreed to accompany Sam to the wedding, except one of her kids got sick and now there's nobody to babysit the grandchildren. Duke stands up, comes over and lays his head on Sam's knee. Sam scratches at his ear.
The telephone sends a jolt through everybody, and for a second Sam forgets what that noise is supposed to indicate, but presently he puts it together and picks up the receiver. "Y'ello, Sam Malone here."
"Sam."
His intestines pool, and his skin is clammy. "Diane?"
"Yes, Sam, it's Diane Chambers."
"I'm calling the police," Sam says, and hangs up the phone.
Expectedly it rings again. "Jose Canseco," says Sam.
"Sam --"
"Diane, unless you are currently on fire, I can't think of a single reason you'd expect me to talk to you after fourteen years."
"I'm -- Sam, wait --"
Sam stands up and starts to pace, the old vitriol rising and with it a whole host of other complicated feelings that tend to make a man insane. "On second thought," he said, "why don't we see if we can get someone to set you on fire? That'd make the call worthwhile. Who's nearby where you are? I imagine anyone around's gotta hate you as much as I do."
She huffs. "That's not fair," she says. "I have friends now, friends and a life, so don't you go assuming --"
Sam hangs up again.
"Charlie's Pool Hall, we're always hiring!" he answers, when the phone rings again. "Let's hear your sales pitch, little lady."
There's silence at the other end of the line and for a moment he's afraid it's not Diane at all this time, but then she coughs and even her cough makes the hair on his arms stand on end. "Sam Malone," she says. "Please do not hang up the phone on me."
"You got five seconds to tell me why not," he says. He hears her breathing. "Three, two --"
"I'm on fire!" she blurts, and he laughs. "Just listen," she says. "Will you listen?"
Sam growls.
"Now, Sam. Have you turned into a gruff old codger in your advanced years, or is it simply me who provokes the animal in you?"
"You make me wanna kill something, if that's what you mean."
Diane scoffs, a light, melodious sound that comes tinnily through the phone. "My Sam," she says, sort of trailing off, and it lingers in both their heads.
"Ah, damn, it's good to hear your voice," Sam says, before he can stop himself.
"Yours too," she says.
He takes a breath. "Not that I don't still hate you and your stupid face," he clarifies.
"Of course not," she says.
"Now will you tell me why you called? I mean, why, tonight, the night before my daughter's wedding, do you call, after me not hearing from you for fourteen years?"
"Sam, I -- your daughter's wedd -- you have a daughter?"
Sam surrenders. He sits down again and looks over at her picture on the coffee table. "Yep," he says. "Sarah Alice Muir."
"Handy initials," Diane points out.
"Ah, she's beautiful, Diane," Sam says, kicking up his feet, looking at the photo that the wedding photographers had given him, Sarah and her fiancé, Jason. Sarah with her long dark auburn hair twisted up in those corkscrew curls. "She's nineteen. I think she's too young, but her mother --"
"Nineteen is too young!" says Diane. "Is she in school?"
"She's at Harvard, studying computers. So's her fiance. They seem to have good heads on their shoulders -- better'n mine, anyhow."
"Oh, Sam, that's not -- well, Harvard, yes, okay, that's fair. Harvard, huh? Apple didn't land too close to the tree, eh?"
Sam rubs his face again. "Got it from her mom. Rita has it all, looks, brains, the whole package. I met her right after you and I -- right after you left me."
"Left, Sam," Diane says. "Left the bar, left the United States, left my old life. But not you. You were with me throughout my travels, of which there have been many, and stories shall be told, but that is for another time. Suffice it to say, you have never been far from my thoughts."
Sam takes a breath. "Well, you were sure as hell far from mine. I might have been with you on your travels, but back here at Cheers, I was all alone. Six months, you said, and I -- Fourteen years, man."
"Sam," Diane says. Her voice sends a thrill through him he tries to fight, but the familiar heat spreads through his gut and his groin, and he licks his lips.
"Yes, Diane, yes, the past is behind us and now I just have one question, which is, why did you call?" Sam stops to wipe some sweat from the receiver. "What, now, tonight, can I, Sam, do for you, Diane Chambers?"
There's some silence on the other end of the line, but then it's Diane again. "I'm in Boston," she says and reflexively he looks out the window. "Only four days, then it's back to Germany for the a quick lecture and then a book signing in France. I'm quite a celebrity in France."
"The French have always had weird taste. What's it have to do with me?"
Diane hems and haws. "I know it's terribly sudden, but somehow I thought we might be past all the drama and nonsense of our early courtship and might have moved on to a place where, were we to find our paths crossing in some spot on the globe, we might indulge ourselves in friendly reacquaintance."
Sam laughs. "You want a quickie?" He imagines he can see her scowl and something about it makes him want to chop lemons.
"No, Sam, I do not want a quickie, as you so decorously put it. Not that I don't retain some very fond memories of the time we had together, but --"
Sam exhales. "Still talk as fast as ever."
"In six languages, now. Well, my German's only passable and my Italian is truly a little rusty, and though my written Cyrillic is positively fluent, my spoken Russian leaves much to be desired. So let's call that three and...three quarters languages."
"Do I make you nervous?" That's something Sam could never have said, back then, back when he was in awe of her every word, when he was dumb like a bump on a frog -- an ex-drunk bump on a frog -- back at Cheers together. Now he's had a little more time in therapy, and he's mellowed, and he's read a book or two. Either way, Diane's been quiet for an uncharacteristic moment and Sam chuckles. "Appears I do."
"You do not make me nervous, Sam, I was merely trying to recollect my train of thought before I'd digressed into that discussion of my linguistic prowess --"
"Linguistic prowess! That sounds hot, tell me more about that," Sam leans back in his chair again, still impatient as ever when he talks to her, and his arthritis doesn't like that one bit.
"I'm married," Diane says. Sam pretends his heart doesn't go cold.
"Sumner?"
"Not Sumner," says Diane. "His name is Luc Brel. We met at the most charming little hotel in the Left Bank, you'd have loved the place, Sam -- expansive views, fabulous cuisine --"
"600 percale sheets and 24 hour room service?"
He hears Diane huff, and he grins. Then she surprises him.
"Can I come over?"
Sam sets the phone down for a moment and furrows his brow at Duke. "She wants to come over," he says to the dog. "That seem as dumb to you as it does to me?"
He hears a tiny "Sam!" from the phone, and picks it up again. "Sorry," he says. "You were saying?"
by Sab
part 1/3
Autumn's been cold and so, in recent weeks, before he locks up, Sam has been taking a little time in the empty bar to exercise Duke, the toughest, lovingest rottweiler in New England. Lately Duke's been feeling his age and Sam's vet, a nubile little number named Sheila, prescribed glucosamine but at $24 a bottle it doesn't seem to be doing a thing except making Sam's wallet easier to bend. He tosses a knotty rope and Duke, who had until that moment been napping quite peacefully under the player piano, peels both eyes open and trots diligently over to the chew toy. With equal diligence and the lumbering gait of a geriatric, he crosses the room to Sam and drops the rope, eyes bright and nocked tail wagging like a thumb. Sam grabs both sides of Duke's great massive head, and lays a kiss on the old boy's skull.
Duke's onset of arthritis coincided with a tightening in Sam's own knees, a seizing in his back and his hips that brings with it an old man's guttural and phlegmatic "yee-ahh" every time he stands up. "Whattaya think?" Sam asks, hoisting himself to his feet and tossing the rope again for Duke. "Think there's life left in us?"
Duke makes his way down the bar and into the corridor by the restrooms to retrieve his toy. Sam's pitching arm isn't what it used to be but he can still lob one over the plate now and again, and truthfully the night's exercise is as much for Sam as it is for the ten-year-old rott. Duke comes back with the rope, laboring a little over the riser, and Sam picks it up. "Mattingly at the plate," Sam says, winding up as far as the bursitis in his shoulder will allow. "Malone pulls back for the pitch. And --" He lets the toy loose and it hits the placard on his office door squarely with a hollow thump before dropping to the floor. "Steee-rike one!" This time when Duke brings the rope back he stops before the riser and sinks to the floor, resting his chin on the knots like a pillow.
"Don't get too comfortable," Sam says, heading to the coat rack to get his jacket and Duke's leash. He punches the code into the bar's alarm, hitches Duke to his leash, and they make their way out into the blustery Boston November night.
Sam loops Duke's leash loosely over his wrist and lets the big dog lead him out into Beacon Street. Just down the block, in the Back Bay sprawl, Sarah's in her mother's townhouse, having her hair styled or her makeup attempted. Or maybe they're done all that and are now drinking. Beer, maybe? Do girls drink the nights before their weddings? Sam can't remember. White wine, maybe, that sounded right. His little girl and his ex-wife drinking white wine five blocks away.
Sam has tomorrow off; Henry's got the bar and Carla's looking after her grandkids, so only Sofi's working, but Sofi once jackknifed a guy for leaving a lousy tip. Sam figures the bar's in good hands.
Duke is sniffing along some hedges, but any moles or badgers that might have been crawling about in there fled at the old boy's unsubtle approach. Duke sits down next to Sam's feet and lets out a low, asthmatic wheeze.
"Me too, buddy," Sam says, patting him on the head. They make it home, though home is now a condo south of Comm Ave and his vintage Corvette spends her long nights alone in a covered garage.
They take the elevator up, get some mail, bills and circulars, nothing. Sam drops his keys, bends down to unclip Duke from his leash, and the grateful dog scampers off to find an area of carpet to circle several times before settling upon it for a nap.
Sam opens the refrigerator and gets himself a club soda. It's only eleven, early enough to get in a date tonight, but Sam's more concerned about tomorrow. He wasn't going to bring one of his bimbos to his own daughter's wedding, but the idea of showing up stag gives him the willies. Carla had agreed to accompany Sam to the wedding, except one of her kids got sick and now there's nobody to babysit the grandchildren. Duke stands up, comes over and lays his head on Sam's knee. Sam scratches at his ear.
The telephone sends a jolt through everybody, and for a second Sam forgets what that noise is supposed to indicate, but presently he puts it together and picks up the receiver. "Y'ello, Sam Malone here."
"Sam."
His intestines pool, and his skin is clammy. "Diane?"
"Yes, Sam, it's Diane Chambers."
"I'm calling the police," Sam says, and hangs up the phone.
Expectedly it rings again. "Jose Canseco," says Sam.
"Sam --"
"Diane, unless you are currently on fire, I can't think of a single reason you'd expect me to talk to you after fourteen years."
"I'm -- Sam, wait --"
Sam stands up and starts to pace, the old vitriol rising and with it a whole host of other complicated feelings that tend to make a man insane. "On second thought," he said, "why don't we see if we can get someone to set you on fire? That'd make the call worthwhile. Who's nearby where you are? I imagine anyone around's gotta hate you as much as I do."
She huffs. "That's not fair," she says. "I have friends now, friends and a life, so don't you go assuming --"
Sam hangs up again.
"Charlie's Pool Hall, we're always hiring!" he answers, when the phone rings again. "Let's hear your sales pitch, little lady."
There's silence at the other end of the line and for a moment he's afraid it's not Diane at all this time, but then she coughs and even her cough makes the hair on his arms stand on end. "Sam Malone," she says. "Please do not hang up the phone on me."
"You got five seconds to tell me why not," he says. He hears her breathing. "Three, two --"
"I'm on fire!" she blurts, and he laughs. "Just listen," she says. "Will you listen?"
Sam growls.
"Now, Sam. Have you turned into a gruff old codger in your advanced years, or is it simply me who provokes the animal in you?"
"You make me wanna kill something, if that's what you mean."
Diane scoffs, a light, melodious sound that comes tinnily through the phone. "My Sam," she says, sort of trailing off, and it lingers in both their heads.
"Ah, damn, it's good to hear your voice," Sam says, before he can stop himself.
"Yours too," she says.
He takes a breath. "Not that I don't still hate you and your stupid face," he clarifies.
"Of course not," she says.
"Now will you tell me why you called? I mean, why, tonight, the night before my daughter's wedding, do you call, after me not hearing from you for fourteen years?"
"Sam, I -- your daughter's wedd -- you have a daughter?"
Sam surrenders. He sits down again and looks over at her picture on the coffee table. "Yep," he says. "Sarah Alice Muir."
"Handy initials," Diane points out.
"Ah, she's beautiful, Diane," Sam says, kicking up his feet, looking at the photo that the wedding photographers had given him, Sarah and her fiancé, Jason. Sarah with her long dark auburn hair twisted up in those corkscrew curls. "She's nineteen. I think she's too young, but her mother --"
"Nineteen is too young!" says Diane. "Is she in school?"
"She's at Harvard, studying computers. So's her fiance. They seem to have good heads on their shoulders -- better'n mine, anyhow."
"Oh, Sam, that's not -- well, Harvard, yes, okay, that's fair. Harvard, huh? Apple didn't land too close to the tree, eh?"
Sam rubs his face again. "Got it from her mom. Rita has it all, looks, brains, the whole package. I met her right after you and I -- right after you left me."
"Left, Sam," Diane says. "Left the bar, left the United States, left my old life. But not you. You were with me throughout my travels, of which there have been many, and stories shall be told, but that is for another time. Suffice it to say, you have never been far from my thoughts."
Sam takes a breath. "Well, you were sure as hell far from mine. I might have been with you on your travels, but back here at Cheers, I was all alone. Six months, you said, and I -- Fourteen years, man."
"Sam," Diane says. Her voice sends a thrill through him he tries to fight, but the familiar heat spreads through his gut and his groin, and he licks his lips.
"Yes, Diane, yes, the past is behind us and now I just have one question, which is, why did you call?" Sam stops to wipe some sweat from the receiver. "What, now, tonight, can I, Sam, do for you, Diane Chambers?"
There's some silence on the other end of the line, but then it's Diane again. "I'm in Boston," she says and reflexively he looks out the window. "Only four days, then it's back to Germany for the a quick lecture and then a book signing in France. I'm quite a celebrity in France."
"The French have always had weird taste. What's it have to do with me?"
Diane hems and haws. "I know it's terribly sudden, but somehow I thought we might be past all the drama and nonsense of our early courtship and might have moved on to a place where, were we to find our paths crossing in some spot on the globe, we might indulge ourselves in friendly reacquaintance."
Sam laughs. "You want a quickie?" He imagines he can see her scowl and something about it makes him want to chop lemons.
"No, Sam, I do not want a quickie, as you so decorously put it. Not that I don't retain some very fond memories of the time we had together, but --"
Sam exhales. "Still talk as fast as ever."
"In six languages, now. Well, my German's only passable and my Italian is truly a little rusty, and though my written Cyrillic is positively fluent, my spoken Russian leaves much to be desired. So let's call that three and...three quarters languages."
"Do I make you nervous?" That's something Sam could never have said, back then, back when he was in awe of her every word, when he was dumb like a bump on a frog -- an ex-drunk bump on a frog -- back at Cheers together. Now he's had a little more time in therapy, and he's mellowed, and he's read a book or two. Either way, Diane's been quiet for an uncharacteristic moment and Sam chuckles. "Appears I do."
"You do not make me nervous, Sam, I was merely trying to recollect my train of thought before I'd digressed into that discussion of my linguistic prowess --"
"Linguistic prowess! That sounds hot, tell me more about that," Sam leans back in his chair again, still impatient as ever when he talks to her, and his arthritis doesn't like that one bit.
"I'm married," Diane says. Sam pretends his heart doesn't go cold.
"Sumner?"
"Not Sumner," says Diane. "His name is Luc Brel. We met at the most charming little hotel in the Left Bank, you'd have loved the place, Sam -- expansive views, fabulous cuisine --"
"600 percale sheets and 24 hour room service?"
He hears Diane huff, and he grins. Then she surprises him.
"Can I come over?"
Sam sets the phone down for a moment and furrows his brow at Duke. "She wants to come over," he says to the dog. "That seem as dumb to you as it does to me?"
He hears a tiny "Sam!" from the phone, and picks it up again. "Sorry," he says. "You were saying?"