ONE CUP (Part 3)

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13

Kayla Prescott

God works in mysterious ways. My fiancé Bobby had been killed a couple of weeks before Hurricane Katrina, and I was struggling, trying to figure out what to do next. Some people were devastated by the hurricane, yet it would turn out to be the answer to my prayers. Michael and Ian McGregor were called up to the majors the day after Bobby’s funeral. Sally, being my best friend as well as my cousin, stayed with me in New Orleans to help me through my troubles.

From watching the news, and The Weather Channel, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind the hurricane was headed for us. Sally and I ignored all warnings to evacuate. We’d survived bad storms before, and refused to believe things would ever get as bad as the news media predicted.

I decided Sally and I should host a Hurricane Party. We invited everyone we knew. Some evacuated, but more than a few showed up, bringing along some of their friends whom I’d never met before. The more, the merrier.

I don’t remember much that happened at the party. All I know is, a couple of days later, Sally and I were hung over, sitting on the roof of her house, with no idea of what happened to any of the others.

The late summer sun was merciless, and the only water fit to drink was whatever rain we could soak up with what little clothes we were wearing during the afternoon thunderstorms. More than one dead body floated past the house. No way to know who they were, they were so bloated and discolored. I just hoped it wasn’t anyone we knew.

When we weren’t puking or crying, we talked. Sally confided in me. “I’m gonna trick Mike into getting me pregnant.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, duh! So he’ll marry me!”

“Do you love him?”

Sally shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

“What if he doesn’t want to get married?” More than one player had used local girls for entertainment purposes, only to forget them for all eternity once they were called up to the majors or traded away to another team.

Sally shrugged, “If I get knocked up, I’ll still get money from him.”

I suddenly saw my cousin in a new light. She was not just an ordinary bimbo from “N’Awlins.” She was like me. Shrewd, calculating. A business woman. Competition.

I knew what I had to do. Three days later, I was rescued. Alone.

Like so many others who perished in the disaster, my cousin’s body would not be found until long after the waters from Hurricane Katrina receded. The coroner’s office was understaffed and overwhelmed. Based upon my eyewitness account, and with no reason, let alone sufficient manpower to investigate further, the coroner’s report listed Sally’s cause of death as DROWNING.

Soon after, Michael Prescott and I were comforting one another through our time of mutual grief. We had each lost a fiancé, and we were falling in love. Well, he was, anyway. One thing led to another, and now I’m his wife. I was born for the role. I have kept my appearance up, if I say so myself. And, I finished my degree in communications, which has allowed me to take advantage of the many opportunities that have come my way. Commercials, public service announcements, and of course my current position as a feature reporter here in Indianapolis. I’m a local celebrity. Move over, Oprah. I doubt any of it would have happened had I not married Michael.

14

Ian McGregor

In the beginning, when I allowed myself to be emotionally detached from the game, I dominated. Ian McGregor, the Tasmanian Devil, someone nicknamed me. I’m from Australia, but I’ve never been to Tasmania in my life. Not that it mattered.

Fame and fortune can be quite addictive. The problem is in dealing with the consequences of failure—shattered dreams, disappointment, and of course, the fans’ reaction. The cheers and “Coo-ee’s!” turned to boos and insults. Everybody loves a winner, but the same people who asked for your autograph when you were on top will form a queue to kick you when you are down.

It all added up to more pressure than I could deal with, so I turned to booze. It seems so foolish now, to have made life-altering decisions as a result of self-induced pressure over a bloody game.

It’s impossible to explain the shit we players put ourselves through just to keep from going home, tails tucked between our legs, to look for real jobs with real responsibilities. Our greatest fear is becoming like the masses who pack the stadiums, worshiping us as gods only because we play a meaningless game slightly better than the average bloke.

15

Nick Taylor

I soon learned Mike Prescott has a secret. Or rather, he thinks it’s a secret. He likes to see dominatrixes. Lady Fredericka, at the apartment and under surveillance, is using him as a financial slave. She humiliates him, calls him her “money slave”; “pay pig”; “human ATM”; and “cash piggy”. She makes him cross-dress, ties him up & uses her toys on him in her dungeon.

Jackie and I know her as Whitney—and let me say right here, she is a sweet girl—but she can turn into Lady Fredericka in a heartbeat. I asked her how she did it and she told me, “It’s just a role I play. It’s all just acting.” So as Lady Fredericka, she shows up unannounced at various times and locations to keep Mike Prescott off balance and on edge. He is expected to always have cash on hand for her no matter when or where – even at church and funerals.

He professes to be a born-again Christian; does a lot of charity work & contributes time & money to worthy causes. Rumor has it he has an eye on a broadcasting or acting career after baseball, maybe even politics. He can ill-afford for his secret to become public knowledge.

Oh, one other thing, he has a really small dick.

16

Whitney

Fredericka is not my real name. It’s Whitney. Whitney Ross. And I suppose you’re wondering how people like Michael and Kayla Prescott entangled me in their web of influence. I have wondered that myself on more than one occasion.

I was born and raised in central Florida, near Orlando. After high school, I took a job at one of the many tourist theme parks to earn money while I attended the University of Central Florida to pursue a Bachelor of Science degree in Photography. My dream was to become a photojournalist. I envisioned my future self as a world traveler, living an adventurous, perhaps even glamorous life. That is the way I envisioned it. Reality, as they say, is a bitch.

I became pregnant during my freshman year, and my parents cut off all financial support. I say my parents, but mainly it was my father. His position was, “The fellow you’ve been sleeping with, Whitney, should man up and support you and your child.” I suppose I understood. What really hurt, though, was when he added, “You do know who the father is, don’t you?

Wounded, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “I’ve narrowed it down to two, Daddy. The band, or the football team!”

That was the last time we spoke to one another, although my mother and I stayed in touch, talking over the phone or meeting for lunch a couple times a month. She would tell me that my father—I couldn’t bring myself to call him “Daddy” any more—would ask her how I was doing. She’d said she’d once seen him standing in the hallway, looking at my high school senior picture on the wall, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Mom always hoped one of us would have the courage to make the first move to patch things up. She just knew if I were to bring the baby girl, Rylee, to the house, he would melt the moment he saw his grandchild, and we could begin the process of healing.

I would not even consider it. “He can come to us if he wants to see his one and only grandchild,” I said. I was in no mood to forgive, and I could never forget what he’d said.

The father of my child, Stefon, a fellow student at UCF, had no further interest in me once he learned I was pregnant. Predictably, I suppose, he too questioned if I knew for certain the paternity of my then unborn child. The last I heard, Stefon was serving time for drug trafficking. I look back now and wonder what I ever saw in him.

A career as a globetrotting photojournalist was not likely to happen for me as a single mother, but a degree might have opened other doors, perhaps with a photography studio, doing weddings and high school yearbook photos. With no support coming from my parents, nor from Stefon, I was unable to continue my studies. I dropped out, moved away and found work at an amusement park near Indianapolis. I worked right up until two days before giving birth, and then went back to work as soon afterward as I could.

Rent, car payments, gas, food, basic cable, cell phone, insurance, diapers, and day care all added up to way more than I was making on my meager wages. I was drowning financially, and I was desperate. Then, one day, I met Jackie.

It had been a bad day. My boss was on the rag all day, or whatever its equivalent that causes a man to be such a horrible grouch. He’d yelled at me three times, and I only deserved it maybe once.

I’d gone straight from work to the neighborhood store for groceries, only to have my credit card rejected. I only had two dollars in my purse. I could do without, but I had no idea how I was going to feed my child. To make matters worse, I was informed by the store manager they had been instructed to keep my credit card.

Then, adding insult to injury, my car wouldn’t start. I popped the hood, got out, and stood there, looking at the engine as if waiting for it to speak to me.

An old, mud-covered Jeep Wrangler pulled up alongside me. “What’s the problem?” a creepy-looking fellow with greasy hair and a week’s stubble of beard asked.

“My car won’t start.”

He opened his door, walked up to me. “I’ve been told I’m pretty handy,” he said with a grin, revealing a mouthful of brown teeth. I couldn’t help but remember the Seinfeld episode with one of George’s old high school PE teachers whose teeth looked like baked beans. “Hop in and turn it over.”

God, I hate it when men order me around! For lack of a better option, I did as instructed. There was a low, weak wurrr, wurrr, wurrr sound, followed by a few seconds of clicking, and then nothing.

“Battery’s dead,” my knight in a sweat-stained wife-beater undershirt announced.

No shit? I thought, but to him I said, “Can you give me a jump-start?”

“I’d be glad to jump you.” He looked me up and down, which really creeped me out. His gaze fixed on my right thigh. “I like your tattoo,” he said. “What is it, some kind of bug?”

“It’s a scorpion,” I said. I’d gotten it the day I turned eighteen for the sole purpose of expressing defiance toward my father.

“Sexy as hell,” he said, then turned his attention to the task at hand. I watched as the stranger popped his hood, attached the jumper cables to first my battery, then his, saying, “Always connect to the dead battery first.” Whether he was trying to impress me or educate me, I didn’t know.

“Name’s Larry,” he said. “Larry Brown.” Like I cared.

I nodded. “Nice to meet you.” I’ve always been good at remembering names, because I always find something about the person to remind me. Be wary of Larry. Larry Brown. Larry with the brown teeth. And with that phrase, I conjured a mental image of Larry eating baked beans and looking up with a stupid grin, exposing his brown teeth. Larry Brownteeth. My mind automatically filed this new arrival into its archives. Despite the fact I had no desire to remember him. I was powerless to stop the process.

“You live around here?” Larry Brownteeth asked.

“Across town,” I lied. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I smiled sweetly, hoping it would motivate him.

Larry twirled a finger, signaling me to crank the engine. It roared to life. I got out, and made the mistake of saying “Thank you so much . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”

Larry grinned, rubbed a snot bubble off his nose, sniffed, and said. “That’s alright, Sugar. We’ll think o’ somethin’!”

“No!” I said firmly. “Thank you. That’s all. Just thank you.” I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for home.

Like an idiot, I didn’t notice him following me, and I led him straight to my apartment complex. I’d no sooner gotten out of my car than he pulled up, screeching to a stop, missing me by mere inches. “What the hell?” Larry demanded as he bailed out of his Jeep, leaving the door open, and came around, arms outstretched to his sides, palms up. “You told me you live on the other side o’ town! I do you a favor, and you lie to me?”

Apparently, in Larry’s world, it was okay for a man to stalk a woman, but not okay for her to lie to him to keep him away. There was no reasoning with him, no calming him down. He pushed me once, then again, and was reaching to grab me when out of nowhere a white Mercedes pulled up, horn blaring. It was enough to distract Larry and allow me to get away from him. I ran around to the other side of my car.

“BACK OFF, ASSHOLE!” the driver of the Mercedes shouted. The voice was not that of a muscle-bound rescuer, but of a petite, 40-ish woman in a black leather skirt and matching jacket. I remembered thinking at the time it was a really cute outfit—but only for a moment.

Larry went for her, calling her a crazy bitch and threatening to give her what she was asking for. She stood her ground, held up a badge. “I’ve already called for backup.”

Larry stopped in his tracks, swore at her, then jumped in his Jeep, and burned rubber.

The woman, my rescuer, looked at me. “You okay, honey?”

I nodded, trembling. I could feel tears running down my cheeks. With a shaky voice I said, “Shouldn’t you let them know which way he’s going?”

“Let who know?”

“The police,” I said. “Your backup.”

“Oh, Honey,” she laughed and waved a hand at me, dismissing the notion. “This isn’t a real badge,” she said. “How many cops do you know who drive a new Mercedes? Oh, my God, Sweetie, you’re shaking.” She came over and hugged me tight.

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.”

“I saw him follow you out of the parking lot, and I knew he was trouble, so I tailed him.”

I began to sob. She reached out, gently pulled me to her, and held me close. “By the way,” she said, “I’m Jackie.