Chapter Eight: Girl on a Swing

“I’m not sure I follow.” I looked at Calla Wiley with some confusion.

Calla smiled. “Well, I guess I mean that Mark Twain is a great writer, and can’t quite help reflecting the biases of his age. I’m certainly not going to hold it against him. Your friend seems to think being male constitutes being macho, which is quite out of date.”

“Ohhhh,” I replied knowingly and brilliantly.

“In other words, he’s entertaining but I wouldn’t want to live with him.”

“Got it.” I smiled. “I did live with him, in college, and it’s not pretty.”

“Sometime we’ll have to exchange room-mate horror stories. I could tell you things about Bianca that would turn your hair white!” Calla giggled.

“Does that mean you’ll see me again?” I pounced.

She kind of tilted her eyes to one side and I could see a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Well… Maybe we’ll run into each other and have coffee.”

“Or you’ll call me again?”

“Maybe,” She smiled, shrugging.

“Or, we could try something really radical. Unprecedented, even. You could give your number to me, and then I could call you.”

Calla looked up at me, and her grey eyes drew me in. I could see that she was going to acquiesce. It was there, bright and sparkling in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Hey, there you are!” A bouncy blonde appeared at her elbow, her hair plaited with braids and beads. “My parents finally showed up, they want to say hi.”

“Bianca,” Calla said, turning to her friend in a daze, “Have you met Diggory Franklin?”

“The lawyer? He actually came?” Bianca turned to me and shook hands vigorously. “Nice to meet you, dude. Do you mind if I steal Calla?”

I barely blinked, and they were off through the crowd.

“Oh, come on!” I said.


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I weaved through the small groups of art-aficionados, trying to spot either Calla or Bianca. Everyone was clustered around, chatting and sipping wine. I couldn’t sort out which way they had gone. The buzz of conversations made it impossible to just start yelling and hope they’d find me. I tried shouting once, and all I got for my efforts was the stare-down from some wealthy dowager.

“Dude, do you have epilepsy or something?” Matt the Pimp appeared at my elbow, smiling as I waved my arms at people to move out of the way.

“Dude, you have an Ivy League education. Why do you always say ‘dude,’ huh?”

“Someone’s having a bad day. Did you miss your nap? Do you want a cookie?”

“Not now! I’m trying to find Calla.”

“She disappeared again? The girl must have trained with Houdini.”

“Do you actually know who that is, or are you repeating something you’ve heard someone else say?”

“Couldn’t pull it off?”

“No. But then, I know you. In history class you once put ‘Babe-raham Lincoln’ as the answer to a question about the first president.”

“So I spelled it wrong! That teacher couldn’t take a joke.”

“Matt. George Washington.”

“The dude on the dollar? No way. Lincoln is on the penny because he was first. One cent, first. Right?”

I started walking away, shaking my head.

Matt rushed to keep up, talking over the crowd. He was persistent, I’ll give him that.

“Anyway, Digger, I came over to tell you: Daphne is off in twenty minutes, and I’m taking her home. You can come and meet her roomie, Petra, or you can stay here chasing the Elusive Femme. It’s up to you.”

I turned back to him. “Matt, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in Barbie Two. I’m looking for Calla, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Dude, Petra! Who’s Barbie?” Matt called out to me as I wandered away through the crowd.

I went from room to room. It didn’t help that every room of the gallery had white walls and bright lights, and was filled with posh people looking at pictures. I lost track of which room I had found Calla in, and which way I had seen her go. None of the pictures made good landmarks, so I couldn’t tell if I had been somewhere before if I got turned around wandering through a crowd of people.

Okay, part of that problem might have been four glasses of wine earlier in the evening, but only part of it.

I began to think that Matt the Pimp had been right. Which was a sign of how low my morale was at that point, Matt was rarely a person known for his wisdom. But, maybe I was trying too hard to find a connection with a girl I barely knew, and who had been a major pain in the ass over the last two days. Her behaviour was erratic, and circumstances seemed to conspire to keep us apart.

“Either she’s crazy or I am,” I mumbled to myself.

And then I saw it. Something familiar and comforting in a world of chaos, and it brought hope with it. I found the photo of Calla. The lonely girl on a swing that I felt I had so much in common with.

I pushed through the mass of people, which was finally starting to thin out as the evening waned. I didn’t want someone else to get there first. I stood before the photograph, staring at hope. There was a tiny piece of paper taped to the frame.

I pulled it off carefully and unfolded the little scrap. I found a telephone number and a smiley face written inside.


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Chapter Four: There She Goes Again

I went through the glass revolving door as fast as I could, calling after Calla. There were a few people on the sidewalk, but nothing like the crowd I had been faced with that morning. I got through them easily, and saw Calla going down the subway stairs. I followed.

One of them swore at me as I pushed past, but I ignored this and kept running.

“Hey, wait up!” I shouted. “Calla, wait!”

I reached the stairs and went down them as fast as I could, my footsteps echoing in the concrete corridor. I tried to go faster, leaping the last four steps. I saw Calla jump the turnstile without paying. I rushed forwards to do the same, but one of the attendants had come out of their booth, yelling after her. I slowed and paid my money as he glared at me.

I went through the turnstile with a sheepish shrug, and then chased off after Calla. I got to the platform just in time to see the subway pull away. Other than myself, the platform was empty.

“Ah, crap!” I yelled, watching it go.

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I rode the subway for two stops. I got out and walked down the street until I made my way to our favourite bar, Madison’s, and was greeted by the hostess, Melanie. We were regulars, and she was always glad to see us. She took my coat and briefcase, and directed me to the back corner, by the pool tables.

“They’re waiting for you,” she smiled.

“Thanks, Mel.”

I wandered back there through the crowd, smiling at other regulars we knew. I made my way to the tables, and was greeted warmly by the boys.

“Hey, Digger!” They chimed in unison, laughing and raising glasses.

“Hey, guys.”

Matt the Pimp was sitting at a big table in a curved booth, his arms around two girls. Each of these had another girl beside her. There were variations in hair colour and eye colour, but they were of the same general type: twenty-something, skinny, cheerleader-pretty. Matt’s Type. He introduced them, but I just labelled them Barbie One, Two, Three and Four. Because Matt the Pimp would have new versions next week, and last week’s versions were already gone. Remembering their names really didn’t seem to matter.

“Dude, grab a seat and have a drink with us.”

“Yeah, sure,” I smiled. Nina, one of the waitresses, was already delivering a beer. I thanked her and swigged it back.

I drank it quickly, and had more whenever Nina dropped off another round. Matt kept the drinks coming, while keeping up the conversation with the girls. Occasionally, they’d get up to dance with one of the boys, or one of the boys would sit down to flirt with a Barbie. It was all a swirling mess, and I just drank through it.

“You all right, Digger?” Matt asked at one point, when all of the girls were up dancing. “You’re not saying much.”

“Yeah, man, I’m… I’m great. Yeah.”

“Dude, you’re drunk. You never get this smashed.” He stared at me for a moment. “That girl? It’s not worth it.”

“I saw her again,” I said with a grin. “After work. She came to see (hiccup) see me.”
“She did? I thought for sure that someone that sounded so uptight would never bother to call.”

“Yeah, well, she tol’ me to ignore her calls and not call back. She doesn’t wanna see me again.” I tried to take another drink, but the neck of the bottle was moving too much. I squinted at it. “This one’s broken.”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s no good.” Matt the Pimp took my bottle and put it on the table. “How about we get Mel to call you a cab?”

“Nah!” I said. “I’m out with my friends, havin’ a good time. Woooo.” I wrinkled my nose. “Matt?”

“Yeah, Digger?”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Neither did Matt, with my vomit on his three hundred dollar shoes.

*****************************************************************************

I rolled over and stared at the alarm clock, which was showing a bright red 4:30. I groaned, my mouth feeling like someone had filled it with manure. I struggled to my feet and found my way to the bathroom in the dark. I had a feeling bright light would hurt right about now.

There was enough ambient light through the window. I rinsed my mouth with water from the sink and then brushed my teeth. And used mouthwash. And drank some more water. My stomach flopped around like a fish on dry land for a bit, but the water helped. Cleared my head a bit, anyway. I ran wet fingers through my hair and then scrubbed my face.

I walked out to the living room, a little unsteady on my feet. I weaved my way past the designer chairs and couch, heading towards the kitchen. My stomach had been empty since lunchtime, and something starchy might help it settle. I noticed my phone was flashing on the countertop: I had a message.

“Digger, it’s Matt. Dude, all will be forgiven, once you buy me some new shoes. Just kidding. I hope you feel better tomorrow. The girls all say hi. Call in sick and I’ll drop by after work.”

I couldn’t help but grin. Matt was a womanizing pig, but he was a good friend. I turned from the phone and went through my cupboards, finding some saltine crackers. I sat on my counter, munching on crackers, and thinking.

I was still in my suit pants and socks. I reached into my pocket and found the card Calla had given me. It was mine, all right. I had given it to her this morning, pristine and white. Now it looked like it had run a marathon or something.

“Who is she?” I asked the darkness.


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Chapter Three: Can't Help Falling in Love

Matt the Pimp was still laughing. He slapped his hands on the table, coughing. I waited for him to finish, staring at my plate. Eventually he caught his breath and sipped some water from his glass.

“Wooo, that was funny. Dude, man, you are nuts.” He wiped his eyes.

“It’s not that funny.”

“Yes, it is. You can’t be in love with a total stranger. You don’t know anything about her. Plus, it makes no sense. She kisses you, then forgets who you are… Whatever her issues are, you don’t need her making you crazy. You should come out with us tonight, do some drinking, some dancing. Forget this Wiley chick. She’s not going to call you anyway, from the sounds of it.”

I shrugged, playing with the remains of my pasta. “She might.”

“Dude, you sound as delusional as she is. No one is worth that much crazy. Come on, I’ll pay for lunch. Let’s get out of here, and I’ll meet you at Madison’s after work.”


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I sat at my desk, staring at the computer screen. I had no idea what I was looking at. Lorraine was standing in front of my desk, going over the calls I had missed.

“…appointment tomorrow with your father, your mother called, Chris Geertz left a message about Wednesday’s meeting…” Her voice was a droning buzz that I barely registered.

“Lorraine, how long have you been married?” I asked, turning towards her.

It threw her off her pace. She glanced at me over her bifocals. “Excuse me, sir?”

“To Mr. Bowden. How long have you been married?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Thirty years, why do you ask?”

“I just wondered… How did you know? I mean, that he was the guy for you?”

Lorraine took a step back, holding up her notepad and glaring at me.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Franklin? You don’t usually ask personal questions.”

“Yeah, well, you’re usually so intimidating, I don’t like to bother you,” I admitted. She laughed.

“Well, that’s true. I try to maintain a professional demeanour.”

“The other secretaries are terrified of you, so I guess it’s working.” I grinned.

“Now, to answer your question… Well, Mr. Bowden and I knew each other a long time, since high school. We were comfortable together, he was the sweetest man I ever met. I think I always just knew.”

I nodded.

“No one else ever made me feel like I was their whole world.” She glared at me over her glasses again and said sternly: “But that’s between us.”

“Of course!” I held up my hands, trying not to laugh.

“What’s with the questions?”

I shrugged. “Well, I met someone today, and she was pretty amazing…”

“That’s more than enough, sir. Is there anything else?”

I blushed. “No, thank you, Lorraine. That should be all for the day, if you feel like leaving early.”

This was unexpected. She blinked. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin.”

I barely heard her go. I went back to staring at my computer, getting nothing done. I wore out the time until it was about seven, and then got up to leave. I put on my suit coat and went to the elevator, the last to leave as usual.

The elevator took forever to get to the lobby. I crossed the ornate marble floor, my feet clicking rapidly across the slick surface with a staccato beat. I was moving a little too fast, so when someone bumped into me near the doors, we both fell over.

“Hey!” I snapped. I guessed that they had come through the doors too fast, and bumped into me without even seeing that I was there.

“I’m so sorry!” Calla Wiley said, looking around dizzily. I helped her to stand, too surprised to speak.

She looked into my face once we were back on our feet. My arms were around her for balance, and she was pushed up against my chest, holding my arms. My world was filled with the scent of her, the warmth of her body. Suddenly, I was a little dizzy myself.

“Frank!” She said. “I found you! Have we met yet? Am I too late?”

“We met this morning… My name’s Diggory, remember? I gave you my card.”

“Oh, shit!” Calla swore loudly, gripping my suit jacket tighter. “I haven’t called you, have I?”

“No,” I raised my eyebrow. “I mean, you should know that better than I do… We haven’t spoken since this morning. Don’t you remember?”

“There’s always disorientation after transition. I don’t even know what day it is. I found you with this.”

She pulled a card out of her jeans. I recognized it as mine, but it had seen better days. It was wrinkled and one corner was torn, and it had a coffee stain. It had my business address and number, so I guess she used it to find the building instead of calling.

“You could have just called, you didn’t need to come down here.” I smiled, trying to be charming, “I’m very glad to see you, though.”

“Shut up and listen to me, Frank! You need to stay as far from me as possible. Forget I exist. Don’t answer if I call, and don’t call back if I leave messages. Promise me!”

She started pulling away. I tried a grab for her wrists, not willing to let her go just yet.

“No!” Calla screamed, her voice echoing across the lobby. I was glad that we were the only people here. “Let me go! It’s too dangerous for you, Frank!”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I said. She struggled in my hands like a writhing snake. I could barely hold her, and wondered why I was even being so forceful. I let go immediately.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rough…” I started.

“I can’t… Just stay away! Please. If you see me, run in the opposite direction.” Calla turned and ran for the doors, back the way she had come. I chased after her once again, going through the spinning door and following her as she sprinted for the subway.


Next Chapter>>

Chapter Two: Cupid's Chokehold

There was a meeting that morning for the law department, and, instead of listening, I was staring out the window. My chin rested on my hand, my elbow on the table. The tips of my fingers idly stroked my mouth softly, as I thought about Calla Wiley and that kiss earlier in the day.

No matter that she didn’t remember it, I certainly did. I wondered what that was about? Was she crazy? Or was I? After all, her hair had grown a few inches in mere minutes, and she’d changed her clothes. Did she have a twin sister? Was it some weird Presque Vu? A hallucination?

“…A nice daydream? Hello, Diggory!” The presenter, Christopher Geertz, was waving at me.

“What’s that? Sorry, Chris, my mind must have drifted.” I folded my hands on the table and gave my best “yes, I’m listening” face.

What was it about her? The scent? Her intensity? Her eyes? I mean, she was a total stranger…

“Excuse me, Chris, but I, uh, have a call to make. Very important client, would you excuse me?” I held up a hand and left the room before anyone could protest, leaving my leather chair spinning in my wake.

I hurried to my office, not talking to anyone I passed in the ornate halls. I passed beautiful paintings without seeing them, failed to greet friends and coworkers.

“Meeting end early, Mr. Franklin?” called out Lorraine, my steely secretary, as I passed her desk.

“Hold my calls, Lorraine,” I said, ducking into my office and closing the door.

I sat down at my desk, running my fingers through my hair. What was wrong with me? Losing my focus, skipping out on the meeting, all for some stranger?

I picked up the phone and hit a speed-dial number, and waited while it rang.

“Dude, ‘sup?” A familiar voice answered.

“Matt, I’ve got girl troubles, want to grab lunch?”

“Sure thing, bro, I know just the place.” He hung up, no doubt returning to slacking off.

I sat down, feeling better. No one knew how to interfere with deep thinking like my best friend, Matt the Pimp.

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I had known Matt since grade school. Our parents played bridge together, and went to the same country club. He was the quarterback of our high school team, and I was the vice-president of the student government, and one of his receivers.

He was one of those guys who instinctively knew how to attract women. He was cocky, and knew he was King Shit of our high school, Turd Mountain. That was what I called him and our school, in my head. I wasn’t jealous of Matt, we were both pretty much equally popular. But he loved the attention, and I knew high school was full of melodrama, and didn’t really matter. At least, I told myself I was above that stuff.

Even so, all through university, I relied on Matt in social situations. He always knew the best parties, the hottest girls. He came to work for my dad in the PR division, and so we worked in the same building. I might have thought him shallow, but that didn’t stop me from benefiting from our friendship. He had set me and our other friends up on so many dates, I had started thinking of him solely by his nickname.

“What’s up, Digger?” He asked, as we met in the lobby and headed out to lunch.

“Just a weird morning, I need to clear my head, get out of the building.” I shrugged. Matt the Pimp raised an eyebrow.

We hustled down the street to a restaurant, ordering cocktails with our meals. He tilted his head to check out a waitress in her skirt while she served an adjacent table. He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So, girl trouble?” He said, sitting up as she gave us menus. Matt flashed a grin her way, and she smiled back.

“Yeah. I met this girl…”

“Dude, if she’s not working out, come hang with us tonight. We’re heading over to Madison’s for drinks. Me and the boys are meeting the girls there.”

I shook my head. “The boys” meant our usual buddies, but “the girls” meant random women that Matt the Pimp tried to set us up with. He met them in bars, at dinners, the country club, through friends and family. I think his Blackberry had more women on it than I had numbers in my business Rolodex in the office.

“I don’t mean that kind of trouble. I’m not dating her.”

“But you want to be,” Matt chuckled. He glanced through his menu briefly, so I took the opportunity to scan for something to eat.

The waitress returned momentarily, and I ordered light chicken pasta with a salad. Matt the Pimp ordered a prime rib dinner for his lunch, and thanked the waitress. He watched her go with a grin.

“Could we focus here?” I asked.

“I am,” he said with a smile, and then turned back to me. “So who’s this girl?”

“Calla Wiley.”

Matt the Pimp’s eyes glazed over for a moment. I imagined he was scanning his mind like a computer checking its memory. Why he remembered girls’ names and not something useful, like how to do his taxes, I will never understand. He clicked back into focus.

“Nope, don’t know her. She new in town?”

“Maybe. She’s a grad student.”

“Ohhh, Digger’s picking up the brainy chicks now. I see.” Matt nodded appreciatively. I got the sense he would be doing the same if I said she was a model, a lawyer or a baker. He would just change “brainy” to some other adjective. “Well, bring her out. A night with all of us, she’s bound to have a good time and end up going home with you.”

“I doubt she’s that kind of girl.”

Matt the Pimp looked at me for a long time. “Dude, I’m totally confused. You’re not seeing her, you’re not trying to get in her pants… What is this chick to you?”

“I don’t know. That’s the trouble.”

“Maybe you better tell me what happened."

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