Cindy and I were in her condo on a perfect Sunday afternoon watching football. During the fall, I don’t work weekends or Monday nights. Cindy knows this about me and mostly puts up with it.
Outside, through the blinds, the sun was shining. We were wasting another perfect day. Big deal. Most days in Orange County were perfect. Besides, football is worth wasting a few perfect days over.
“So explain what that yellow line means again? Do the players see it?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t mind explaining football to Cindy. I took pride in the fact that football seemed an overly complex game for the uninitiated. “The players can’t see it. The yellow line is for the benefit of the fans.”
“And you are quite a fan.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Probably because I played the game. I know how difficult football is.”
“I thought you said it was easy.”
“No. I said football came easy to me. Playing my position, fullback, came naturally to me. However, everything else was hard. The grueling practices in one hundred-degree heat with twenty pounds of pads. Playing when hurt. Picking yourself up off the ground after you’ve had your bell rung.”
“And pretending it didn’t hurt,” said Cindy.
“Yep.”
“You rung a few bells in your time.”
“That’s how I made my living.”
“Except you weren’t paid.”
“Alas, no.”
“So why is there a yellow line?”
“It denotes the first down.”
She snapped her fingers. I could almost see the light on behind her eyes. “You’ve told me that before.”
“Yes.”
“But you never sound impatient.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I happen to like you.”
Cindy’s condo was cozy and immaculate. She had painted her north kitchen wall red. It looked orange to me, but I have it on good authority-Cindy’s-that it was indeed red. The small kitchen had a ceramic red rooster on the fridge, and lots of country knickknacks. The rest of the house was laced with curtains. Cindy loved curtains. She even had curtains behind curtains. The walls were adorned with many of my own abstract paintings. She was my #1 fan.
Cindy’s Pomeranian, Ginger, was sleeping on the couch between us, and looked like a little red throw pillow. I was working on a can of Diet Pepsi. Cindy was drinking herbal tea. Earlier, she had asked if I wanted some herbal tea, and I politely suggested herbal tea sucked ass. Now we were watching the Rams game, and eating one of her few original dishes, a 7-layer bean dip. Today, I counted only five layers.
“No guacamole or sour cream,” she admitted. “So I added more beans.”
“Did you say more beans?”
She thought about that, and groaned. “Oh, God, what have I done?”
I grinned and dug into the dip.
At halftime, Cindy said, “The vandals struck again.”
I picked up the remote control and clicked off the TV and set the chips on the coffee table, and turned and looked at her.
“When?”
“Friday. Broke into my office, destroyed the place, ruined everything I owned. Pissed in the corners, defecated on my books.”
“What did the campus police say?”
“They’re looking into it. Appears to be a guy and a gal, according to the video footage they have. But both are masked.”
“Any more messages?”
“I think the pile of crap on the title page of my latest textbook on world religions was message enough.”
I inhaled. I was shaking. Adrenaline surged through my veins.
Cindy stroked my arm with her palm. “I’m not scared, okay? I’m used to this. I’ve lived with this my entire life. Many people hate my name and me. Remember, I have a permit to pack heat.” She did, too. She carried a small. 22 in her purse. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t want you to ever need to use your heat.”
“Which is why I have a big, strong boyfriend. Besides, you have been watching over me, right?”
“Every night you teach.”
“But I don’t see you.”
“No,” I said.
“Which means they don’t either.”
“Exactly.”
“You are good.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, we’re missing the game. Looks like someone crossed over that yellow line thingy. That’s a good thing, right?”
Except now, I didn’t feel much like watching the game. The vandals upset Cindy, which upset me. Someone was going to pay.