Hemlock, Bubbles, and Beets: A Love Story

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, magical day.

On a cool Saturday morning in mid-September, the sun has just risen when I wake up before my alarm to prepare for the championship. We’d reached the finals after thrashing most of our opponents over the warm summer months.

I wash the snot out of my eyes, brush my teeth, and get my things together: black flip-flops, white tennis shoes, pink hoodie, black sweats, extra t-shirts, extra socks, extra hat, two narrow-mouth Nalgene water bottles, electrolyte tablets, sunblock, a peanut butter sandwich, an orange, a banana, two freshly strung Prince Original Graphites, and a vial of hemlock.

I drink two glasses of water, do my business in the downstairs bathroom, give one or two children already on screens a kiss on the top of their unwashed, light-haired heads, and quietly close the back door behind me so as not to wake up the Sleeping Queen with Dark Circles Under Her Eyes resting quietly in our bedchamber.

I open the garage, slip into the reclined driver’s seat of the blue Nissan Leaf, back out, close the garage, and turn on 104.3 Jams, Chicago’s #1 for Throwbacks. I hear a faint whistling followed by “can’t be any geek off the street…” I turn up the volume and Warren G is my muse: “Regulators, mount up!”

I drive west with the sun at my back, toward Riis Park, a sprawling urban oasis with fields of grass, weeping willows, and ten tennis courts. A few miles in, as I pass the phở restaurants and Black-owned nail salons, 104.3 plays “Country Grammar.” I blast the volume and Nelly and I rap together with the windows wide open. The Leaf rises a couple of inches above the grey, pot-holed streets on the West Side of Chicago.

They’re all there: the middle-aged white ladies with sunglasses, visors, nametags, clipboards, and pens; the mostly 20-something opponents with thick thighs, poly strings, and palpable virginity; and my squad with 5 o’clock shadows, faithless wives, and Covid.

My doubles partner, Martin, is overweight and out of shape but 20 years younger than me and handsome. His dad is white and his mom is black. Chubby Martin has the body of a hippopotamus but the speed of a gazelle. He makes amazing shots and too many mistakes. He sweats profusely even though it’s doubles and barely over 60 degrees. He likes me because I’m likable and he wants to know more about me because I went to a Talib Kweli concert.

My team needs to win three of five matches and, by mid-morning, we’re down 2-1. Fat Martin and I are still playing, as is Young Dylan who, unfortunately, has Covid. Young Dylan is a white boy from St. Louis. He’s 29, unassuming, very good at tennis, and suffering from Covid. He never brings a bag or a second t-shirt. He shows up to the courts with a water bottle, two tennis racquets, and a demure Don Draper tattoo. Today, his shoulders are sagging because he has Covid.

Young Dylan’s opponent is the last person he or anyone else would ever want to play while suffering from Covid. His name is Enrique Ochoa, he is 38, and he is the love child of Cristiano Ronaldo, Rocky Balboa, and the Salamanca twins. He runs down every ball. He never hits hard and he never misses. He is caramel brown from the sun. His calves are veiny. He rarely speaks. He is a convicted murderer.

The sun, the temperature, and the pressure are rising. I try to focus on my match but Young Dylan’s match is riveting. Enrique Ochoa makes bad line calls but Young Dylan doesn’t have the energy to argue. Young Dylan refills his small plastic water bottle while Enrique Ochoa drinks nothing. The points are long and brutal. Young Dylan wins an important game but is practically in tears because he has Covid. Enrique Ochoa turns to the crowd and says, “If he dies, he dies.”

Young Dylan wins the match because he is the superior player. He stumbles off the court and sits on the grass with his back against a weeping willow and his head hung low. Squirrels nibble on the rubber of Young Dylan’s tennis shoes. He allows it because he is exhausted from Covid.

The team match is now tied 2-2, and it’s up to Fat Martin and me.

We go up 5-4 in the third set. If I hold serve, we win. I slow down between points. I focus on my breathing. I bounce the ball a few extra times. My throat feels dry and my anus feels tight.

I play a great first point but Fatboy Martin misses an easy volley. My arm feels heavy from the weight of the pressure and I miss too many first serves. On break point, Thunder Thighs across the net hits a 200mph inside-out forehand that clips the line.

We lose that game, we lose the next game, and we lose the game after that. We’ve lost the match 7-5 in the third set and we’ve lost the championship for our team. I recall that the vial of hemlock is packed in the side compartment of my black-and-white Prince tennis bag.

A lady with a visor hands me a sheath of plastic with 20 silver medals which weigh less than nothing. We stand glumly as our picture is taken. Young Dylan stands off to the side because he is social distancing and suffering from Covid.

I feel shame. My head hurts, my feet are sweaty, and my banana is warm. I don’t stretch. I climb into the Leaf and listen to “Ocean Eyes” by Billie Eilish. The drive back across town takes nearly an hour and the Leaf’s battery is critically low.

I open the garage, pull in, close the garage, and open the vial of hemlock. It’s empty, and its contents have spilled all over my precious Prince Original Graphites.

I open the back door and one of my unwashed, light-haired children says, “Hi, Daddy. Did you win?”

“No,” I say. “Daddy didn’t win.”

_____________________________

I spend the next seven hours in a fugue state but I have a date that night with She of the Dark Circles. I shower, shave, and brush my teeth again. I am feeling slightly better by the time we walk out the front door.

I’m wearing white shorts, a black t-shirt with images of a polar bear and a coat hanger, and flip-flops. I tie a light blue, long-sleeved t-shirt with an infinity sign around my waist in case it gets chilly, but the gentle heat hits me as the heavy wooden door closes behind me. I stand on the second step, look up at the full moon, take a deep breath, and inhale the warm September evening.

Halfway down the block, we stop to smell our neighbor’s lilies, admire the breadth of the oak trees, stare at the bright moon, and inhale our own greenery. And now we’re rolling 😊.

We round the corner, I turn to give Dark Circles a giant hug, and her brown eyes are glowing. She hugs me tight and I feel her warmth as well.

50 feet ahead, something looks peculiar. As we approach, we see that it’s bubbles. Our whimsical neighbor has set up a bubble machine and blue spotlight in their front yard so passersby walk through a mosaic of soft, luminescent, ephemeral bubbles. Brown Eyes and I pause in the bubbles, briefly kiss, and continue on our merry way.

We sit outside at a local bistro and are enveloped by the full moon, fairy lights laced through a matrix of latticework, and planters brimming with red petunias, orange marigolds, and yellow geraniums swimming in a sea of green leaves, sweet potato vines, and trailing ivy.

Our waiter is a gay Hispanic man with tattoos, tight black jeans, a white, low-cut, v-neck t-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed glasses resting low on his nose. He glows gold in the fairy lights and floats around the restaurant a couple inches above the sidewalk so his all-white, unlaced Air Max 1’s don’t get dirty.

I spread my baby blue infinity shirt over the back of my chair and take a deep breath as I look at Brown Eyes and settle in. We drink peach-colored aperol spritz and eat tender purple beets, sweet cherry tomatoes, soft white burrata, crispy green salad, and seared pink salmon.

Brown Eyes gives me a few minutes to process the morning’s defeat but we spend most of the time talking about I can’t remember and laughing about I have no idea. We don’t need dessert or a second aperol spritz because we’re happy with the bright sky, the fairy lights, and the purple hydrangea, but thank you anyway gay Mexican Buddy Holly.

We’re nearly done with dinner when more magic arrives. The stop light on the corner turns red and up pulls a man on a motorcycle. Actually it’s not a motorcycle; it’s a chopper, baby. The seat is reclined, the rearview mirrors are elevated, and the handlebars are high.

The man on the chopper is wearing dark sunglasses and has a pair of ski goggles on backwards. He has jet black skin but I can see him perfectly because the moon is shining and the red, green, and yellow stop lights have painted him rainbow.

The chopper is gently humming but the man’s speaker system is absolutely blasting “All Night Long” by Mary J. Blige, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul. The man is nodding to the beat, swaying to the rhythm, and making sweet love to the chopper. He is half-man, half-hip-hop party, and all sex machine. Brown Eyes and I soak in his aura for 25 seconds or maybe an hour. The light turns green, the man drives away, and I can see his beautiful penis resting impressively on the chopper’s brown leather seat.

We finish our drinks, give Ricky Martin a giant tip, and walk home. It’s still warm. The moon is still full and the bubbles are still in the air. Everything is infinity. Brown Eyes and I frequently stop walking to embrace and French-kiss.

The unwashed, light-headed children are nowhere to be found when we walk through the front door, so Brown Eyes and I head to the bedchamber which, within minutes, is ablaze. It’s been a long day, but Fire Eyes and I are still and always in love. There is laughter, intensity, and tenderness, and Fire Eyes rests in my arms as we fall asleep thinking of hemlock, bubbles, and beets.