Page 14 of The Progressions

“It’s my dad’s,” I answered. “We have tomatoes, cukes, summer squash, herbs…we have a variety. He’s out there every day.”

“You live with him?” I nodded, and then he asked, “Is he retired?”

“He can’t work anymore,” I said. “About five years ago, he had a stroke and he wasn’t able to go back to the pickle factory, and it closed anyway.”

“They can’t fix his problems?”

“No, there’s not a pill to cure hemiparesis,” I said. “That means he has weakness on one side of his body, and he gets numbness, too. He did different therapies that helped. They also did a lot for his speech, but it’s still hard for people to understand when he talks, and he still struggles with mobility.” The garden was a safe place for him to be, close to the house, nice and flat.

The waiter came and we ordered a whole bunch of food. I said that I would pay for mine only and that I didn’t want to split the bill, and Tyler seemed to take in that information although he didn’t bother to answer. And speaking of bills, I wondered about the cost of other things.

“Did you pay for that move?” I asked. “Did you pay for the whole load of furniture that you didn’t actually own to be wrapped and shipped across the country?”

He sighed, very quietly. “Probably. Shay has my credit card.”

“And you didn’t know it was happening?”

He didn’t answer that, so I tried another one.

“Are you really going to live in the condo with all that stuff?” When he still didn’t respond, I went ahead and filled in my own conclusion. “I don’t think it’s possible. It would be horrible, like the worst claustrophobia you ever had.”

Appetizers arrived, a lot of them, and the waiter spread them across the table. Tyler started to eat very fast, as if he’d been starving.

“They have really good spreads for you guys at the Woodsmen practice facility. Right?” I nodded, answering myself again. “I’ve seen pictures of buffet tables that are unbelievable.”

He nodded, too. “When we broke for lunch, I was still with the trainers.”

“Because you got attacked. Why?”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“I do,” I told him. “I’m curious, for one thing, but I’m also worried about team camaraderie and how it will effect the upcoming season. And I don’t want you to get hurt,” I added, but it didn’t sound too good, coming at the end like that. “I really do care about you as a person.”

He looked at me with an expression that approached hatred. “Yeah, I bet.”

I stopped talking, but I didn’t eat anything on the table since I wasn’t planning to pay for it. There wasn’t enough for me anyway, because Tyler finished every last bite, right down to the parsley garnish.

Then he looked around. “I hope it doesn’t take too long to bring out the rest.”

“You had a real workout today,” I noted. “Did they give you the ice to bring home for your bath?”

“They’re generous like that.” He sighed, another small exhalation. “I could have stayed at the practice facility to sit in the ice bath there, but I wanted to get the hell away. And then I walked into the shitstorm at my house.”

“It’s bad,” I said, quoting the moving man. “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t respond.

“Shay Galton should fix it,” I mentioned, “since she’s the one who seems to have created the problem.”

“She’s not going to do anything to fix it. She already flew back to LA,” he said. He leaned back and looked again for the waiter.

“What are you going to do?” I repeated. “Don’t you have people? Like, agents and assistants, hanger-on types who can take over?”

“No. Yes, I have an agent,” he corrected himself. “I don’t have an assistant. I have a stylist but she won’t help.”

“That’s like, a dresser,” I clarified. “She picks your clothes and your haircut, like my dad did for me when I was in kindergarten.” Yes, I remembered his previous remark regarding how I carried my dinner in a cooler. “Was she the person who told you to wear fur in July?”

“It’s all through Shay,” he said, and rubbed his head like he remembered the feeling of that garment. “Her look is important and I’m in a lot of her stuff.”

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