In a Class of His Own Ch. 03

Her sister Ellen was a hottie, and I thought that Moe had even prettier facial features. It wasn't just the challenge; I was genuinely intrigued.

Steve and I got our apartment, and Nina had invited us to come to Chicago, before I called Moe again. She ducked me. It sounded like an excuse, but Moe swore that it was genuine. She even offered me a rain cheque.

- "I don't have plans next weekend." she said. "Pick your day."

- "Saturday." I didn't want her exhausted after a tough day at work.

- "And what will we be doing?"

- "Wear sensible shoes."

- "That's it? That's all you're telling me?" she said.

- "I'll buy you a beer, if you survive." I said.

She didn't have an answer for that. But I think that her curiosity was piqued.

Saturday came, and Steve lent me his (new) car. Moe surprised me - she was wearing a skirt, and a sleeveless shirt over a tube top. Her hair was brushed, and she had earrings on.

- "You've been tanning?" I asked. She was showing shoulders, arms, and a fair bit of leg.

- "I like to get a head start." she said. "So where are you taking me?"

I wouldn't tell her, until we pulled up in front of the Sports Clinic. They had several gyms, an indoor driving range, and our destination - the batting cage.

- "You're kidding, right?" she said. "I haven't played baseball since grade school."

- "I think you're a natural."

- "Hah!"

But I had guessed right. Moe was just too damned competitive to pass up this challenge. After two swings, she realized that her loose shirt was impeding her movement. She took it off, and threw it at me. She stood in the batter's box, with only the skirt and a tube top.

- "I can do this." she said.

She could, too. It took her half a dozen swings before she got her timing down. After driving a couple of balls into the ground, she levelled out her swing, and started hitting line drives. The batting cage had a screen, with different colour targets on it, and an automated voice would call out the result every time the ball smacked into the screen.

- "Single. Single. Out. Single. Double!"

- "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout." said Moe.

- "No trash talking while you're at bat." I told her.

I had been planning to give her a few pointers, but I never did. For one thing, she didn't need many. And Moe wasn't the type to take advice. On top of that, I was far too busy checking her out.

Santa Maria. Who knew? Moe was braless, and those were definite handfuls under her tube top. Narrow waist, full hips. And the way she turned those hips as she swung ...

Moe was not a natural athlete. She wasn't graceful, either. But she was a fierce competitor, determined to smack one of those automatic pitches into the green circles near the top. And every time she took a solid cut, her boobs swung under the tube top. Even the batting helmet looked good on her.

I was also fascinated by the look on her face. There was no quit there.

She was breathing hard when the buzzer sounded. She hadn't hit a home run, yet, and she was ticked off.

- "This game is rigged." she complained. "Alright - you hit a few. But I'm not done."

I put more tokens in the machine, and then took a few swings. I'm not an elite baseball player. But I didn't have to be - the machine was fairly predictable. Fastball, fastball, curve. I hit a homerun on the 11th or 12th pitch. Moe scowled.

But she didn't stop watching, trying to figure out the pattern. And when she got a second chance, Moe was significantly better. She stroked consecutive doubles, and then launched a few high pop flies.

- "That should have been a homer!" she complained.

Finally, with only a few balls to go, she smashed a shot high up on the screen.

- "Home run!" said the automated voice.

Moe straightened up, balanced the bat on one finger, and then flipped it away. I laughed my ass off.

- "Challenge completed!" she laughed. "You owe me a beer."

I took Moe to an upscale pool hall, with fancy decor, and full-sized snooker tables.

- "I'll have you know," she said, "I'm a pretty good pool player."

- "I know."

- "How do you know that?" said Moe. Then her eyes narrowed. "You talked to Ellen."

- "Maybe."

- "Just for that, I'm gonna kick your ass." she said.

- "Careful." I said. "This is snooker - not 8-ball."

- "Still gonna kick your ass."

- "Want to bet?"

Now she was suspicious. "You're no shark. What's the bet?"

- "I win, you go out with me again." I said.

- "Hmmph. What about if I win?"

- "What do you want?"

- "You don't bother me for a month." she said. "You don't ask me out, you don't call me - nothing."

I had to stop and think about that. On the one hand, I didn't want to lose. But what was she doing? If I couldn't call her for a month, she had to suspect that I was going to call her exactly 32 days later. And I was sure that she was having a good time, tonight. She had enjoyed swinging the bat, and pool with a few beers was right up her alley. I didn't quite understand the stakes, but I agreed.

- "Done." We shook hands.

She kicked my ass.

The only pleasure I got was watching her lean over the table to make shots, with her braless breasts dangling over the felt. Otherwise, it was a humiliating defeat.

- "Best two out of three?" I suggested.

- "You lost, Chris. Man up." she said.

- "There's just one problem." I replied. I took the tickets out of my pocket, and presented them to her.

Most of the decent clubs in our town had been turned into discos. Loud, filled with pretentious Saturday Night Fever imitators, and utterly depressing. But there was one place downtown, an old converted theatre, that still booked decent acts. I saw John Mayall and the BluesBreakers there, and George Thorogood.

Ellen had told me that Moe was crazy about the Rolling Stones. It just so happened that our town had produced a remarkably good Stones cover band, with a lead singer who bore an uncanny resemblance to Mick Jagger. Ellen even told me that Moe had had a crush on this guy for years.

I had two tickets for this Stones cover band - for three weeks from that night.

Moe was surprised. She didn't know what to say, for a minute.

- "OK - the bet was, you can't call me for a month." she said. "But if I just happened to show up at the theatre, on that day ... and you were there with the tickets ..."

- "That could happen." I said.

We worked out the details, and agreed that our arrangement did not invalidate her win at the snooker table. We had another beer, and a few laughs. We talked about music, for a while. Every signal I got from Moe was positive.

So why didn't she want to go out with me? I was confused. Yes, she had told me her reasons - but she seemed to be enjoying our date. She wasn't faking.

- "Thanks - That was fun." she said, when I dropped her off. "See you in a month. Or three weeks, maybe."

When Steve asked me: "How did it go?", I really didn't know what to say. Baffled and bewildered, that was me.

Three weeks later, Moe showed up outside the theatre.

- "Well, look who it is." she said. "What a coincidence!"

Moe looked like a different person. She had curled her hair, and she had on a lot more makeup than I had ever seen her with. She was also wearing a dress. And what a dress! It hugged her curves, and was slit up one side, showing a lot of leg.

Two thin straps were all that supported it, and that left her shoulders and a considerable amount of her chest bare. Most fascinating of all, it was low-cut, and pushed her breasts upwards, creating a surprisingly deep cleft between them. I had only recently discovered that Moe had nice breasts; even then, I had pegged her as a B cup. I had to revise that estimate.

Moe looked ... hot. But a bit trashy. Borderline slutty. I decided that I didn't like it. I'll readily admit that I snuck a few peeks at the cleavage on display, but I really preferred her in more casual clothes.

I'm sure that didn't matter to Moe. She danced her ass off. The moment the show started, people started dancing in the aisles, or in front of their seats. I guess it was something of a tradition. Moe was an energetic dancer, though not a particularly skillful one. Not that she cared. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. That was her attitude.

I like the Stones, but she was a complete fanatic. She shrieked at each new song, and mouthed the words as she danced. She was sweaty and completely dishevelled by the end of the night.

- "Thanks. That was great." she said.

- "Want to go for a drink?" I asked. My favourite pub was a block away.

- "Nah. It's not a date." Then she drove herself home. I walked the four blocks to the apartment I now shared with Steve, wondering what on earth I was doing.

***

I called her the day after our bet expired.

- "Hi Chris." she said - before I had said anything.

- "You knew it was me? Am I that predictable?"

- "Yeah." she laughed. "I have to admit, though - when the phone rang an hour ago, I picked it up and said 'Hi, Chris'. It was my Mom on the other end."

- "Nice!"

- "Just had to explain who you were. No big deal."

- "So you can also predict why I'm calling." I said.

- "Yeah. Listen, here's the deal. I'm going to the Carsons' cottage opening - the May long weekend." In Canada, we celebrate a statutory holiday, the Monday before Queen Victoria's birthday (May 25th). Hey - any excuse for a long weekend.

"I need a Euchre partner - you play, right?"

- "I do."

- "And you don't mind working your ass off first, do you? 'Cause it's business before pleasure."

- "I don't mind."

- "Bring a fartsack - a sleeping bag." she said.

Moe picked me up Saturday morning, and we drove to the lake where the Carsons had their cottage. I had never been there before, but the place was legendary, even back in high school. Laura and Lacey were twins, in the same grade as Moe. Their sister Debbie was a year behind. There were rumours of skinny-dipping, wild parties, and full-on orgies.

I tried to be subtle, and get the truth out of Moe on the way up.

- "It's not what you think. There'll be 12 people there, at most. The girls share the bedrooms, while the guys camp out in the living room. Hence the fartsacks."

- "There were rumours, back in high school ..."

- "Skinny-dipping. Once." she said. "Nothing else happened. I'm not saying that there was never any fucking going on, but there was no public sex, no swapping - none of that."

- "Too bad." I said.

- "And there's not going to be any for you, so don't get your hopes up. Just concentrate on all the work you're going to be doing. And the cards - I want to win this year."

- "A bit competitive, are we?" I said. "As for the sex - what if I meet somebody nice?"

- "Yeah, right."

It was a three hour drive. When we arrived, I was stunned. The location, on the very corner of the lake, was ideal. And it wasn't a cottage. I had been expecting something rustic - you know, like a cabin. Instead, the Carsons' cottage was a modern, split-level house, with a huge deck and a two-car garage.

I met the sisters - they had come up the night before - and their boyfriends. Two more couples arrived after us. I managed to remember most of the names, but couldn't always match them to the correct partner. It didn't interfere with the weekend's activities at all.

We did work. We opened and cleaned the boathouse, put the dock in the water, cleared a ton of leaves from the eave troughs, raked and swept. The guys worked outside, while the girls were inside. Laura's boyfriend - or was it Lacey's? - knew all of the jobs that needed doing.

Many hands make short work. By the time we were done, though, we were filthy, and sweaty. There wasn't enough hot water for 12 showers, so we donned our swimming trunks and leapt in to the absolutely fucking freezing lake. It wasn't quite a Polar Bear swim, but nobody lingered in the water for very long.

The girls came running out of the cottage, shrieking at the tops of their lungs, and jumped into the lake as well. There were quite a few jiggling tits and bouncing asses on display, and of course, when they climbed out of the water, every single one of them had a severe case of nipple erectitis.

I handed Moe a towel, as she shivered and cursed.

- "Why do I keep doing this? Every fucking year I forget how fucking cold it is."

- "Tradition?"

- "You love it!" shouted Lacey. Or Laura.

Beers were opened, and the barbecue was set up.

- "Go easy." said Moe. "Cards, later."

- "This is really important to you." I said.

Moe sighed. "I've been coming here for years, Chris. We always play cards, and I've never won. I finished third one year - when there only four couples. Otherwise I'm usually last, or second-last. I'm just kind of sick of it."

- "Alright. I'll do my best."

The Carlsons set up three tables in the basement. No sooner was dinner finished, and the men had cleaned up the dishes, than we were all downstairs, shuffling and dealing.

I hadn't told Moe that I learned to play Euchre at the age of seven. My parents taught my sister and me early, and we played frequently. They also analyzed every hand, and made us explain why we had played specific cards. Yes, it made us slightly neurotic. But it also meant that I learned to watch my partner's and my opponents' discards.

We got decent hands, but Moe and I could feel it, almost right away - that glorious feeling one gets when their partner knows how to play. You stretch a weak hand, to score a point here, or trap your opponents and euchre them there. The points add up.

We took two out of three games from Laura and her boyfriend. Everybody took a break, and then switched tables for Round two. We were up against Fran and Marco, one of the other couples. Moe and I were even more in sync than we had been in the first round.

I'm don't mean table-talk, or any kind of cheating. I mean just reading your partner's cards, and making the best possible play based on that information. Moe was grinning.

- "Yes, partner!" she said, over and over again - deservedly. She was aggressive, calling even borderline hands, whereas I was a bit more conservative. But we immediately recognized each other's style.

- "You guys playing footsie under the table?" asked Fran, after we had stolen another point. "How the hell did you make it with that?"

We swept them three games straight, by lopsided scores.

Our next match was a lot tougher. The cards just weren't cooperating. Moe kept calling, and we got euchred several times. We managed to eke out a narrow win in the second game, but lost the third when Debbie made two lone hands in the space of four deals.

There was a longer break after that match, and I commiserated with Moe.

- "Nothing you could do." I said.

- "I made some stupid calls. Got euchred too much."

- "Hey - if you hadn't been aggressive, we wouldn't have won that second game."

- "Maybe."

She was grinning again in the next match, though, because we got better cards, and because Sandy's partner, a guy named Mike, was frighteningly predictable. He also never called unless his hand was overwhelming. We steamrolled them.

In the final match, we played Lacey and her boyfriend Pat. The girls were clearly rivals from way back. Pat was a nice guy. He and I just sat back as the girls trash-talked and slammed each other. The game itself was highly competitive, and thoroughly enjoyable.

They won the first game, 10-8, and were leading the second, until Moe and I roared back to edge them 10-9. In the rubber match, Moe could do no wrong. Lacey got a little desperate, and made some overly optimistic calls. We euchred them twice, to win 10-6.

One other team had a record of 4 and 1. It was Debbie and her boyfriend, Ian. The total scores had to be added up ... and we came up four points short.

Moe groaned.

It was pretty late, by that time, and most everybody had had more than enough to drink. The girls tidied up, and the guys unrolled their sleeping bags. Goodnights were said, and the girls went off to their rooms. Moe gave me a wink, but that was it.

I was still a bit keyed up, so I stepped outside, to clear my head. I went down the stairs from the deck, and sat on the bottom step, looking out over the moonlit lake.

The sliding door opened a few minutes later, and two people came out onto the deck. I heard a match being struck. Moments later, that unmistakeable smell came wafting down to where I was sitting.

- "Here - help me out with this." said a girl's voice. It was Lacey. "Come on - I can't smoke it all myself - I'll be a basket case."

I resolved to wait until Lacey and her friend - or sister - had finished their joint before going back in. If I went up now, they would probably offer me some. I really just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

- "So, you finally got a boyfriend who can play cards." said Lacey.

- "He's not my boyfriend." said Moe. "But, yeah - he can play. Aaargh ... fucking Debbie. We almost won the whole thing."

I froze, at the bottom of the stairs.

- "Not your boyfriend?" said Lacey. "Hon, I saw the way he was looking at you."

- "Yeah." said Moe. I couldn't see her, so I had no idea what that single word meant. Did she sound sad? I definitely wasn't going up onto the deck now - they would know that I had been listening. I stayed put.

- "I thought you were going out with that guy ... Sylvia's friend."

- "Rich." said Moe.

- "Yeah, him." said Lacey. "He was hot!"

- "Yeah." said Moe.

- "He had a nice car, too. What happened?"

- "I don't know." said Moe. "There was no ... spark. He was a bit dull."

- "How about in bed?" asked Lacey.

- "I don't know."

- "You never took him out for a test drive? Hon, I would have ..."

At that point, I moved away, as quietly as I could. I shouldn't have been there, eavesdropping, and I definitely didn't want to be around if Moe and Lacey suddenly decided to come down the stairs.

I waited a long time before coming back to the deck. There was no one there when I re-entered the cottage, and crawled into my sleeping bag.

***

After a big breakfast, and thank-you hugs from all three Carson sisters, Moe and I hit the road. We were both quiet. I was mulling over what I had overheard the night before. I had no idea what Moe was thinking.

- "Thanks again - for the cards, last night." she said.

- "You're an excellent player." I said. "Aggressive, but under control."

- "Most of the time. Not very lucky, though."

I was about to say 'Lucky at cards, unlucky at love' - and then I shut my mouth. The conversation faltered.

Moe popped her in a Rolling Stones tape. It was Sticky Fingers. God Bless her, Moe was one of those compulsive rewinders, so the tape was right at the start: 'Brown Sugar', and then a tune I didn't know so well. 'Wild Horses' came on, and we both sang it. Then we both got a bit self-conscious, and just listened to the next few songs.

The fifth or sixth song was 'Bitch'. It's a kickass Stones' song, with great horns. Moe immediately turned it up.

- "My song." she said.

- "Your song?"

- "Bitch. Suits me - don't you think?"

I reached over to turn the sound down.

- "Moe - you do know what this song's about, right?"

- "Bitch." she said.

- "It's about drugs, Moe." I said. "Heroin, probably."

- "What?" she was outraged.

- "Listen to the lyrics - but think of drugs, this time." I said. I rewound the tape, and turned up the volume.

- "Shit." she said, when the song was over. "I thought it was about a chick. Now I feel pretty stupid."

- "Don't. My friend Steve explained it to me. I just thought it was a cool song."

- "It still is." she said.

- "Agreed." I said. "Moe?"

- "Yeah?"

- "You're not a bitch."

She laughed. "Stick around, Chris - stick around."