Ninth in a series of installments documenting my failed political ambitions, my warped sensibilities, and my Portland Trail Blazers.
Kenny and I loitered around the side of the highway for a while, cursing to ourselves. In my rage, I desperately looked for a small animal to smash the life out of beneath my Converse sneakers. After coming up empty, I started grabbing small plants out of the ground and tossing them feverishly against the concrete barrier that separated my neighborhood from I-84. Kenny yelled at me to calm the hell down, and I jumped up onto the barrier to sit next to him. We tried to make out movement on the opposite side of the highway, to no avail. My anger was subsiding, and on the short walk home I tried to enjoy the serenity of the cold night.
The next morning, after the adrenaline wore off, I took a jog around the neighborhood, texted Gerald Wallace to invite him over for breakfast, stopped by the German deli to grab some bread, had a short conversation with the shop owner about the Franco-Prussian War and its direct affect (or lack thereof) on World War I, ordered some high-definition night-vision spy binoculars online, and called some colleagues to talk shop and apologize for the odd display of affectation demonstrated at the disaster that was the sports awards banquet. I was going to need some time to get back into the good graces of my fellow writers, and so I wanted to nip this particular problem in the protophysical bud as soon as possible. Kenny stopped by, still visibly shaken from the previous night, and we talked about the strange turn of events as we cooked a large breakfast.
Lala was still away on business. Right before I left for the Cayman Islands last year, she had been hired by Humanity First, a non-profit organization whose west-coast base was in Seattle, and so she had been spending many days away from home, doing whatever it was that they did in large faceless non-profits. I had no idea, and since she got the job I had been so buried with drama that I hadn’t had the desire to even Google it. I laughed as I mentally compared our nights: she, lounging around in a five-star boutique hotel, wearing a gold monogrammed robe, watching old episodes of Frasier on her iPad, sipping carefully on some organic ginger microbrew; me, imbibing on absinthe, chasing a masked intruder through my neighborhood in the dead of night, jumping over fences with arms not-quite-akimbo, pants ripped from jumping over a too-tall rose bush, searching for tiny animals to kill as I spit and slobbered and bellowed like a madman.
I had previously expressed to her a genuine sense of interest in the goings-on of her new job, but she assured me that it would be of no interest to me. “It’s basically all paperwork,” she would mutter and flick her forearm through the air. “Nothing glamorous.” I couldn’t help but feel like dead weight, like an appendage dangling from your body after a nasty skiing accident. I wanted a turn to be the cheerleader, the rock, the dependable partner who didn’t fall ass backwards into nefarious plots involving Nazi eugenics doctors and Cuban subversives every time you left him alone. After all, she had supported me in DC with grace and dignity, as I wormed my way through different social circles and mingled with the appropriate coterie. I wanted to return the favor, to a loving woman who deserved a chance to strike out on her own.
Alas, such is my eventful life; such twists and turns and unexpected pitfalls, loaded with glowing thorns of swelling resistance and tempting fruit of a unique persuasion. Lala and I met three years ago at a fake mustache party thrown by Bernie Sanders, junior senator of Vermont (and my ex-employer), and we slept together that night in his guest bedroom. Our relationship was borne out of convenience, possibly – we were both single and new to Washington, DC – although it grew to harness a strong base, built with equal amounts of trust and lust. We became mainstays of the conventional beltway party scene, all the while privately hating the insular and cold methods of glad-handing bon vivants. Still, we made long-lasting connections that we thought would bode well for our (my) future, and not long afterwards, after spending enough time in the Senate hallways and blowing enough smoke up the asses of lobbyists and House Committee members, rumor started to spread that I would be appointed as the US ambassador to the Cayman Islands. Lala, who had never uttered a negative word about my blatant, selfish ambition, made it clear that any sexual indiscretions on my part would be wiped clean the moment I decided to return to the States.
Listen: it was shocking how casually she made the suggestion, and I protested to no avail. I believed it was done to test my devotion to her, and I casually laughed it off, even half-insisting that Lala come along with me. I knew she wouldn’t, though, and I had privately reasoned that our separation, even if time would prove it temporary, would be beneficial for her career and, most importantly, her independence and rationale. She had the wherewithal and raison d’être of a successful, confident woman, and my blustering swagger was no match for my culpability on this front.
“Where’s Lala?” asked Kenny as he liberally smeared a slice of German sourdough bread with Nutella.
“Seattle again. Humanity First is running her ragged.” I carefully sliced some bacon into small bits and sprinkled them liberally into the omelets I was cooking. “Which reminds me – I haven’t even told her about last night!”
I grabbed a honey crisp apple and bit into it. Just then, the bell rang. “That’s Gerald Wallace,” I told Kenny as I slid over to the front door to let him in. He came in holding a giant pink box of Voodoo Doughnuts that he had picked up on the way over.
“Damn,” he said. “I can’t get over how far away you live!”
We both laughed. “Welcome to ‘Outer’ Northeast Portland, my friend!” said Kenny, shaking Gerald Wallace’s massive right hand. “You know, I swear they always say that on the news just to kick us a little bit. Like we’re not as cool as the regular Northeasterners.”
“Hey, trust me, it’s much better than anyplace on the west side!” Gerald Wallace said as he looked warily at the boiled whole crab sitting on the dining room table. He picked it up and poked the fleshy underbelly with his finger.
I brought the omelets and beverages over to the table and we started to eat. The conversation immediately turned to Bellybuster, and we obviously couldn’t wait to tell Gerald Wallace about everything that happened the previous night: our lewd behavior at the sports banquet, a legendary bowling night, and chasing a strange woman through the suburban muddy backyards that surrounded my home.
“The plot thickens,” I deadpanned as I tossed the Bellybuster documents over to Gerald Wallace after he insisted on hearing the entire story from me again. Kenny took out the copies of the documents I made for him earlier, and they perused it together.
“Look at this map,” Gerald Wallace said. “Is this Seattle, this red dot?”
“No. My guess is Lopez Island.”
“Isn’t that where Paul Allen has his compound?” he asked as he examined the map again. Allen, the owner of the Trail Blazers, was a childhood friend of one William Henry Gates, founder of Microsoft and one of the richest men in the world. Allen left the company in 1982 and sold his stocks shortly thereafter, free to spend his billions on yachts, professional sports teams, and various undisclosed political contributions.
“Yeah. He owns practically half the island.”
“But he doesn’t live there,” said Kenny.
“Right. He lives on Mercer Island, not Lopez – according to his tax documents.”
Gerald Wallace and Kenny both looked at me quizzically.
“Trust me, I have sources. I’m a sportswriter, remember?” I turned around and tossed my apple core into the open trash can. “Anyways, nobody really knows anything about the Lopez compound. It’s essentially fenced off from the rest of the island, with armed guards flanking the main gate, at the neck of Sperry Peninsula.”
“So you’re pinning this on Allen?”
“I can’t pin it on anybody yet,” I insisted. “Something isn’t right, though. I’m just trying to untangle all this mess.”
I reached for the crab and started ripping the legs off.
“How did you get these documents, again?” asked Gerald Wallace.
“It was wrapped around a brick with a rubber band and thrown into my window the other day,” I told him as they continued to peruse the contents of the folder – the very same folder that I had discovered at Yang’s bungalow the previous year on sun-soaked Grand Cayman.
“Who threw it into your window?” asked Gerald Wallace.
“No idea,” I said as I finished a tall glass of orange juice. I started to pour another glass. “I think it might have been whoever was trying to break into my house last night, actually.”
“That’s what I figured,” chimed Kenny. “It makes it seem less depraved, though, don’t you think? The fact that it’s a woman doing all this to you?”
Gerald Wallace motioned for Kenny to elaborate.
“Look, she’s obviously trying to help you. She made sure you got a copy of the Bellybuster documents, right?”
“Wait – why didn’t she just knock on your door?” asked Gerald Wallace. “Why’d she have to break your window if she really wants to help you out?”
I leaned back in my chair and smiled. “She doesn’t want to be caught, for whatever reason. Whoever it is.” I got up and walked into the kitchen. “But Kenny’s right. She wants to help me. That much I know.”
“How are you so sure?” Gerald Wallace pressured me with intensity in his eyes. He was clearly skeptical about the bizarre chain of events.
I smiled. “Follow me,” I told the guys, as they bewilderedly trailed me out of the house and towards the northwest corner of the property. I peeled the bushes aside and told them to look closely. “I found this earlier today, as I left the house to go for a run.”
Written in clear capital block letters on the side of the concrete base of the house was the following phrase:
YOUR FATHER IS ALIVE.
Add The Sports Daily to your Google News Feed!
