“The Deal” // Meetinghouse

*This story was originally published in Meetinghouse Magazine issue 6

Where the hell is she? I scan the Whole Foods parking lot, but it’s futile—I don’t know what she looks like. All I have to go on is her screen name: MommaBear22. She could be any of the soccer moms filing into the store. They’re carbon copies, each sporting the same Lululemon leggings, pushing the same tank-sized S.U.V.s, enduring the same struggles parking said S.U.V.s. The suburb, too, is a carbon copy, a labyrinth of strip malls that could’ve been anywhere in the U.S. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, but I don’t have a choice. 

I study the terrain, marveling at MommaBear22’s skills as a tactician. The parking lot offers the perfect camouflage for her to lie in wait and scope me out, the lone outsider. My vehicle is a far cry from the others—I’m idling in an ’06 Honda Civic with a cracked windshield and duct-taped bumper. My physical attributes do little to help my cause—I’m two hundred and fifty pounds with a shaved head and a wolf neck tattoo. The sandy-haired, all-American families stare as they pass. A dead-eyed security guard circles the lot every ten minutes like clockwork. I’d be a fool to try any funny business.

My watch reads four twenty-eight, nearly a half hour past our agreed-upon time. I start to type a message to MommaBear22, then think better of it. She wants me to panic, just like I did when she left me on read for a whole week. My face flushes with rage as I remember how she ignored me when I double and triple texted her like a pathetic sniveling worm. 

I can’t believe I’m groveling at the feet of a kale-smoothie-sipping housewife who hasn’t consumed a carb since 2003. I spend my nights guarding the entrances to Chicago’s diciest nightclubs, parting seas of belligerent drunks into two categories: the chosen and the unworthy. Should one of them question my judgment, a simple crack of my neck scares them back in line. But I can’t muscle my way out of this bind; I have to stay calm and keep my wits about me. 

The sun begins to set, ushering in another interminable December night. I can’t take midwestern winters; the long bouts of darkness fill me with the primal urge to shovel down casserole and hibernate. And then there’s the cold. When the icy wind howls across Lake Michigan, it slices through down jackets with the ruthless efficiency of a butcher. At this point in the season, it has yet to snow; the sky, concrete, and exhaust fumes all assume the same shade of gray that seeps into everything. Red and green Christmas lights adorn the skeletal branches of the trees, adding a tinge of holiday malaise.

Déjà vu creeps over me as I watch a dad cart a flatscreen out of the Best Buy next door. Then it hits me: I visited this strip mall with Luna years ago when the Best Buy was a Toys ‘R’ Us. We came for a Black Friday sale, our family’s only chance to afford the coveted Barbie Dreamhouse. We waited in line for hours that morning, sipping hot cocoa to stay warm. When the doors opened, our fellow shoppers deployed their acrylic nails like talons and pounced on marked-down items like wounded gazelles. Shielding Luna from the stampede, I pushed toward the doll aisle. I placed my hand on the last Barbie Dreamhouse at the same time as another dad. I didn’t have to say a word to back him off—I knew a pencil pusher when I saw one. I cracked my neck and he relinquished his grip. Luna hugged my leg so hard she cut off circulation, a twinkle of admiration in her little doe eyes.

Luna hadn’t hugged me like that in nearly a year. She shut me out after I ruined last Christmas, and in the process, added the words “dependence” and “relapse” to her budding vocabulary. She had reluctantly agreed to see me again this Christmas, and I was determined not to mess it up. I scoured Craigslist until I found the number one gift on her wish list, the elusive talisman that could mend our relationship. It was just my luck that it was held by a ruthless internet stranger known only as MommaBear22.

***

Night falls with devastating swiftness. Five-o’clock commuters lurch onto the highway in an orderly queue. The sky hangs black and starless overhead; the suburb is lit, instead, by a constellation of neon signs for various big box retailers, fast-casual chains, and gas stations. The lampposts in the strip mall parking lot flick to life, making me wince. The temperature plummets into the single digits, testing the limits of my Civic’s heater. I wonder how much longer I’ll have to wait in this godforsaken place. I imagine some poor acne-faced cart boy finding me in the morning, a bright blue corpse with icicles dangling from my nostrils.

Just as I’m about to cave and reach out to MommaBear22, she texts me, “Here.”

A woman approaches from the other side of the lot, a tall, slender blonde with glistening locks. Unlike her peers, she isn’t clad in athleisure wear; she sports heels and an elegant red dress that ripples in the bitter wind. She pauses for a moment to check her lipstick in a car’s side mirror—a carnal shade of red to match her dress. Though there’s nothing matronly about this woman, I figure she must be MommaBear22—she’s heading right for me. 

I step out of my Civic, but not before smelling my breath. Who knows, maybe we can grab a bite after we do the deal. I no longer care that she treats me like a pathetic worm—in fact, I think it’s kind of hot. I wave at her, grinning idiotically. I quickly realize the woman isn’t MommaBear22, for her steely blue eyes show no trace of recognition. When she casts her frigid gaze upon me, my loins tingle with a strange combination of arousal and terror. She strides past me into Whole Foods, the automatic doors whooshing open for her. 

I watch her weave through the produce section to the wine bar facing the window. She eases onto a stool and crosses her long, tan legs. When the bartender pours her a glass of red wine, she makes a “keep going” gesture with her hand. He glances over his shoulders, then fills her glass to the brim, violating store policy. She pauses for a moment to twirl the wine, to inhale its rich aroma. Finally, she indulges in a long pull, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

The whisper clouds my brain. It’s the same whisper I battle when I work the nightclub, its insidious rasp urging me to abandon my post and submit to the pulsing bass within. How much longer are you going to let MommaBear22 toy with you? We both know she’s not actually here. Why not keep the woman in the red dress company while you wait? It’s the chivalrous thing to do. Come on, one drink won’t hurt... I imagine the woman in the red dress kissing a glass of pinot noir to my lips and tilting my head back. I imagine slipping off her satin shoulder straps, our bodies intertwining in her marriage bed.

I snag my Marlboros from my jacket pocket. Our A.A. group leader, an ex-school teacher with a grisly scar running down his cheek, said the only way to silence the whisper was to submit to a higher power and pray. I thought he was full of shit until he led us in a somber “Act of Contrition” that cleansed my mind. I soon realized it wasn’t the prayer that had silenced the whisper, but the ritual of the prayer. The safety and certainty of a routine, of knowing what was to come. The ritual of smoking, I found, worked equally well.

I purse a cigarette in my lips and attempt to light it, shielding my Bic from the vicious gusts. I spark it once, twice, three times, but it’s futile—it’s out of juice. “Got a light?” I ask a nearby mom loading groceries into her car. She shoots me a look of disgust and shields her son’s eyes, lest he be corrupted by the mere sight of me. 

I start to shiver as I stand there with the unlit cigarette in my mouth, the faint taste of tobacco on my tongue. I bet the woman in the red dress has a Zippo you can borrow. 

“Griffin?” a voice asks, jolting me from my trance.

“Y-yeah?” I reply. I turn to find MommaBear22 standing behind me. On Craigslist, she was an imposing titan who bent me to her will. But in person, she’s a pipsqueak who cranes her neck to address me. She looks exhausted, creases lining her forehead, dark bags encircling her eyes. A baby is strapped to her chest, twitching in his sleep. Yellow splotches of spit-up crust her shoulder.

“You got the money?” she asks curtly. I can’t believe her audacity—she doesn’t even acknowledge she’s an hour late to our meeting, much less apologize. 

I clench my fists, knuckles sore from busting up a brawl at the club the week prior. The sleeping baby, however, leaves me with limited avenues to express my rage. 

“I want to see the goods first,” I reply, my voice a seething whisper. 

“I don’t have time for this,” she says, rifling through her diaper bag. “I’m late to pick up my oldest from gymnastics.”

My pulse quickens as she digs beneath changing pads and rash creams, at last procuring a small box. When she opens it, my breath catches in my throat. 

***

I hit rock bottom last year during the holidays. The P.T.A. moms asked me to play Santa Claus at Luna’s school, on account of my build. I committed to the role, affixing a false beard, applying blush, and donning a lustrous red suit. Before I went out to the gymnasium to face the throng of starry-eyed children, the whisper crept in. It coaxed me into the bathroom stall, and before I knew it, I had a flask of Jack Daniels pressed to my lips. I steeled myself by thinking of Luna’s letter to Santa, margins overflowing with hearts and candy canes. It didn’t work. I threw my head back and took a long, satisfying gulp.

At first, things went off without a hitch. Normally, I would’ve been intimidated by the vast, snaking line of elementary schoolers stretching before me, all squealing with glee. But the whiskey made me the jolliest Saint Nick there had ever been. I belted out carols and ho-ho-hoed my vocal cords raw. I listened to each child’s wish list with rapt attention, assuring them the elves were hard at work. Only a couple of them seemed to notice the liquor on my breath. 

The trouble started when a twerp named Topher climbed onto my lap. The fidgety little bastard couldn’t sit still. He tugged at my beard, nearly pulling it loose. I managed to fend him off, but then those sticky little fingers found their way inside my jacket. Just like that, he had a hold of my flask. “Give me that, you little shit,” I said, yanking his wrist. 

I must’ve pulled too aggressively, because the flask shot out of his hand. It arced all the way up to the rafters, hanging there for what felt like a lifetime. I cursed myself—I always forgot my own strength when I drank. 

Finally, the flask began its descent, gathering speed like a missile. I saw what was about to transpire but I was powerless to stop it. I watched in horror as the projectile struck one of Luna’s classmates dead in the eye, drawing blood. The gym fell silent. The only sound was the metal flask clanging against the hardwood floor, leaving a trail of whiskey in its wake.

I spent the next six months in rehab. Upon completion of the program, the divorce lawyers granted me visitation rights. But still, Luna froze me out. I thought there was no way to win her back—that was, until I came across MommaBear22’s listing on Craigslist.

I gaze in awe at the little white dropper bottle in MommaBear22’s hands. The eye of Horus is emblazoned on its side. This is the season’s hottest skincare product: Eternal Sheen Retinol. In the weeks before its release, influencers extolled the serum’s mystic power to prevent crow’s feet, showcasing their flawless skin in the glow of their ring lights. One lauded the product as “immortality in a jar.” On the launch date, the influencers’ tweenage disciples swarmed the website, crashing the servers. When they came back online, the inventory was sold out. It was rumored that automated bots took everything. This created a resale market more cutthroat than any I’d ever known, a cesspool of scammers and mercenaries. The talking heads joked it was easier to score a black-market kidney than a bottle of Eternal Sheen.

I can’t believe Luna begged us for Eternal Sheen. Last time I saw her, she was playing with dolls—how did she make the leap to anti-aging serums? Part of me is concerned. It can’t be healthy for a girl her age to compare herself to social media influencers, their photos airbrushed into oblivion. Another part of me doesn’t care. I’ll buy her a thousand bottles of Eternal Sheen if that’s what it takes to regain her affection. I’ve already missed so much time with her—I can’t afford to miss any more. 

“Alright, fork over the dough,” MommaBear22 says, shoving the goods back in her bag. 

Obediently, I offer up the three crisp hundreds I withdrew from the bank that morning, triggering a low balance penalty. 

MommaBear22 snatches the bills from me, a glint of suspicion in her eyes. She holds them up to the L.E.D.s, verifying their authenticity. Once satisfied, she asks, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean? We agreed on three hundred.”

“I recall three fifty.”

I whip out my phone and show her the text message in question. “Three-hundred. It’s right here.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to argue.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

In response, she jostles her baby. It awakens with a confused whimper and proceeds to sob, eliciting stares from nearby shoppers.

The security guard’s brake lights flick to life in the neighboring aisle. He rolls down his window and asks, “Is everything okay over there, ma’am?” 

“I can’t do three fifty. I have twenty-six dollars left in my account—that’s it,” I whisper. “Call him off so we can make this deal.”

She studies her cuticles, stonewalling me. 

“Please, I need this for my daughter. I’m begging you,” I say, interlacing my fingers.

This seems to soften her. Just as the security guard steps out of his car, MommaBear22 says, “Everything’s fine over here. Just a little misunderstanding is all.” The guard tips his cap and continues his rounds.

“Thank you,” I say. 

“There’s an A.T.M. in the Whole Foods. Bring me the rest of your cash and make it snappy—my kid will be done mucking around in the foam pit any minute.” 

A renewed rage fills me as MommaBear22 flashes a wry smile. I want to hate her, to write her off as a tyrant with an axe to grind, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do the same in her position. She has mouths to feed just like the rest of us. 

***

The A.T.M. stands next to the bar, not five feet from the woman in the red dress. As I punch in my pin, I watch her from the corner of my eye. She sips her wine suggestively, voluptuous lips playing on the edge of the glass. Her attention is fixed on her phone, which she swipes with abandon. Her ring finger sports a diamond the size of a jawbreaker.

Before I cleaned up in A.A., I had a weakness for this subspecies of woman, the prowling trophy wife. In her early twenties, she tied the knot with some high-powered consultant who promised her a life of Birkin bags and Black Cards. But after a few years, she began to feel like an animal trapped in an art deco cage. She passed the days in a drunken haze, resentment for her husband smoldering as he jetted off on more and more frequent business trips. She realized the only way to get his attention was to step outside their marriage. But not just any indiscretion would do—she wanted to shack up with a disgusting oaf, a man whose very existence was an affront to her husband’s delicate sensibilities.

On many occasions, I volunteered to serve as the oaf. The rush was intoxicating as the trophy wives pumped me full of tequila shots and carted me off to some anonymous motel. Once there, they pounced on me, unleashing urges they’d repressed during all those years of obligatory missionary sex.

I remind myself that I’m sober now; the woman in the red dress isn’t worth it. And hell, how do I know she’s even interested in me? I’d been wrong in my typecasting before. 

I focus my gaze on the screen and press “withdraw.” With a whir, the A.T.M. ceremoniously dispenses all the money I have left on this godforsaken rock—twenty-six big ones. Well, twenty-one after the transaction fee. I snatch the bills and turn toward the parking lot. 

Just as I take the first step, the woman in the red dress wags her empty wine glass and asks, “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?” 

Her sultry voice renders my legs inoperable. I stand trapped between the bar and the automatic doors, fingering the crisp bills in my hand, still warm from the machine. Why not treat the lady to a nice pinot noir? Retinol is no gift for a ten-year-old, anyway. 

The shoppers around me are oblivious to my struggle. They wander the aisles like wraiths, filling their carts with frozen green beans and low-fat eggnog.

I peer out the window, where snowflakes have begun to drift down from the darkened sky. For a moment, I can still make out MommaBear22 tapping her foot. Then the wind picks up, and the flurry obscures her from view. The bar feels cozy, a welcome respite from the tundra outside. Right on cue, Michael Bublé’s rendition of “White Christmas” plays through the speakers, filling my chest with warmth. It isn’t that I particularly like Bublé—in fact, I think he’s a hack—but his cloying voice is reliable, familiar. The scent of evergreen and cinnamon wafts through the vents, lulling me into a daze. 

I try to summon my resolve by thinking of Luna. I imagine her tearing open my gift, eyes wide, jaw hanging open. I imagine that heart-melting smile unfurling across her face, all missing teeth and dimples. I imagine her embrace, a bearhug warm enough to thaw my icy heart. All would be forgiven; the magic of the holidays would be restored.

“I saw the way you looked at me in the parking lot,” the woman in red says, tracing her fingertip along the rim of her glass. “Why don’t you stay a while? Make yourself comfortable.” I try to turn away, but I’m utterly entranced. The barstool beside her looks like home.