Kansas University –
Wednesday Afternoon, March 8, 1989
Jerry and his college buddy, Yaniv, walked out
of the lecture hall in animated talk about making fast money upon graduation,
striking mortgage deals in the inflated real estate market as it grew at record
levels. Yaniv was business savvy and intended to make millions in the finance
industry. His parents were first-generation Israeli immigrants who settled in
New York City where his father owned a successful pharmacy—this did not help
Yaniv’s penchant for drug use. Yaniv was short and slightly chubby and never
talked about his heritage and never
wore a Kippot.
“The forecasted double-digit growth in mortgage
refi’s,” Yaniv said, “we’ll make six figures our first year. A fast and furious
payoff for this four-year grind.”
“I think you missed the point, Yannie,” Jerry
said. “We need to be a broker to reap a percentage cut of the loan value.
Otherwise, we’re just pushing paper, processing loans at a flat rate. It could
take years to get into management or make partner without an MBA.” Jerry shook
his head and looked down at the sidewalk as they walked through the grassy
campus mall. On this gorgeous spring day, students were scattered across the lawn,
some napping, reading, flipping Frisbees, or propped up under one of the cherry
blossom trees that created a border between this setting and the town activity
across the street.
“Not if you stick with me,” Yaniv said. “My
brother’s going to bankroll my
brokerage.”
“I dunno,” Jerry said. “My drive for money is
waning,” Jerry said as he gazed upon pink and white blossoms, the breeze
blowing sweet fragrance across his face as he filled his lungs with its
freshness. “Time to fill me up with something new.”
“What?” Yaniv said. “What happened to ‘Jerry the
high roller’? Fill your lungs with this baby,” he said as he held the toke from
the joint he’d lit while Jerry was ruminating.
“Huh?” Jerry turned to him to find the joint
held to his lips, the acrid smoke of the smoldering doobie surrounding Jerry’s
face. He was tempted to inhale through his nostrils—just one breath. As if on
cue, his mind flashed the lightning scene.
Jerry,
you are not alone, the inner Voice revealed.
“Huh?” Jerry said, perplexed.
“Whazzup, man?” Yaniv said as he took another
toke.
Jerry turned his head and stepped away. “Later,”
he offered to put off a decision he didn’t want to make. “Gotta catch someone,”
he said over his shoulder as he changed direction and half jogged a few steps to
quickly move on.
Jerry and Yaniv met as freshmen in business
courses and tracked on the same finance degree. Most people called him Yan, but
his close buddies—a score of them—called him Yannie. Always wearing sunglasses,
they hid his crusty and redlined eyelids. A funny guy, he could mime Ronnie
Milsap on the keyboard and sing “Smokey Mountain Rain” as close to Milsap’s
voice as anyone could professionally imitate. Besides the dark shades that set
him apart in the classroom—he would excuse the look as being sensitive to
light—no doubt, his pupils were dilated because of his frequent use of pot. Jerry
noticed that he continually bounced his leg during lectures. A straight-A
student, Yan would comment that pot smoking helped him focus and calmed the
jitters from the Ritalin he took for ADD.
Jerry headed back towards campus alongside the buds
that had just popped, the leaves beginning to fill between branches. Through
the skeleton of trees, he could see the massive building that housed the
auditorium.
Yan was “cool” not only because of his friendly
personality and wry smile, his older brother was the personal manager of famous
country music artists. Yan frequently flew to Nashville to hang backstage with the
musicians and watch concerts from celebrity seats. When Yan said it was snowing
in Colorado during his annual spring break pilgrimage, he was not referring to the weather.
Yan transformed entertainment at KU with a concert
series that included country music and classic rock—the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Steely
Dan, and Van Halen. So, you could say that he was a student celebrity—everyone liked him. Yet, he was reclusive
and preferred to hang out with his close-knit buddies that contributed to his
wild antics and bizarre behavior. His laughter often meant he was up to no
good. Jerry heard these headliner bands perform in this acoustically perfect
venue, but nothing beyond that. He had no other reason to be interested in the
auditorium, until now.
When he saw Christina dance at church, he was
drawn to what she was expressing. It was more than dance moves. There was
something that radiated from her—passion—an inspiration that he’d never felt
within himself. He was drawn to find out more.
The street with its interlocked overhanging
branches opened onto a circular drive with a grand fountain that filled his
view as he approached the auditorium. A bronze sculpture of the Roman goddess
Venus depicted her as born from a huge clamshell and displayed her sensual
beauty with barren, perfectly round and pointed breasts that left nothing to
imagine. She was alluring—arms overhead as she laid outstretched on her hip—so
much so that it was a tradition for the uninhibited to strip their graduate
gown and clothes and bathe in the fountain completely naked.
“They’re everywhere,” Jerry said. “I get rid of
my Playboy centerfolds, and then, she sits on display for public viewing.
What’s the point in me changing? The world remains the same.” He shook his head
and chuckled. Plant the good seed.
A banner fluttered in the wind and caught his
eye. Gracefully balanced on the toes of one foot, the other leg splayed behind
with ballet slipper pointed upward, the dancer’s arms spread wide like a swan
gliding over water. He drew closer to study the image of the ballet dancer. Her
blue-black hair was drawn into a bun atop her head, her face and eyes the focal
point of the banner—eyes dramatically lined and shadowed that popped from
powdered white skin. Her lips painted ruby, glistened. He almost didn’t
recognize her but saw through the theater mask the natural beauty he witnessed
at the coffee shop, where without a trace of makeup, her face glowed through
her translucent skin and perfect complexion.
Jerry jumped onto the fountain ledge hoping to
see more detail—those kaleidoscope eyes of amber, topaz, and brown sapphire—but
she was not across from him at the coffee house where her irises scintillated
with an invitation to peer within. His mind flashed to her in the church where
she danced as one with the music, flowed gracefully, suspended in between
movements as if her toes never touched the floor.
He looked to the series of auditorium doors atop
the broad and grand limestone cut stairs. “Maybe I’ll get lucky,” he said
smiling as he did a prance on the ledge to the other side of the fountain. Something
glittered in the water and caused him to stop and take notice. He shoved his
hand into his pocket and brought out a handful of change. Taking a shiny penny,
he flipped it into the air and melodically chanted, “A thousand eyes behold her,
the dance flowing seamlessly . . . bring her to the stage, for my eyes to see
thee,” as the coin went “kerplunk.”
He leaped from the fountain ledge and jogged to
the stairs taking them three at a time and approached the middle door and gave
it a tug. Locked. He moved to the right. Locked. “Ugh.” He tried the next.
Locked. He jogged down to the left side and pulled on the last three doors.
Locked. Locked. Locked.
“Oh well, no one said she would be here. You
were just hoping so,” He shoved his hands in his pockets and bounce-skipped
diagonally down the steps. He rounded the sidewalk’s ornate street lamp and
took the brick-laid path that led down the side of the auditorium. A side door
warned: “Performers Entrance Only.” He stopped, took only a second to consider,
and then gently pulled on the door handle. It opened.
He slid through the dark opening and silently
closed the door.
Pitch black.
Eyes accustomed to the bright sunshine were
worthless at finding his way. Up the inclined hallway leading left, a crack of
light outlined a door. He assumed that heading right went backstage. With his
hands he followed the wall that led to a door where orchestral music emanated. He
continued up the ramp and cracked the door to a sunlit lobby, the brightness of
its atrium ceiling caused him to squinch his eyes until they adjusted. No one
around, he walked to the center aisle doors and placed his hand to open it.
“Crap!” he said under his breath as he caught
himself before pulling. “Can’t go to the main, they’ll see the door open.” He
looked back the way he had come and saw the staircase leading to the balcony.
“Whew, this certainly has been an ordeal.” He
quickly bounded up the carpeted stairs, darkened except for ambient light. He
discreetly entered a side door to the balcony. In the dark, the main floor also
unlit, he walked to the center and took a seat.
He counted five dancers dressed in tights and
ballet slippers. Twin ballerinas synchronously leaped into the arms of two muscular
dancers who effortlessly lifted them overhead and pranced with their partners soaring
in the air. What caught Jerry’s attention, even more, was the apparent void of
a partner for the remaining dancer, yet her movements reflected those of the
paired ballerinas. Her torso twisted in response to an imaginary partner that
spun her mid-air to face upward, then with a deft tuck of her fully extended
legs, she flipped upright as her legs parted to a one-eighty degree scissor.
Jerry rose from his seat, entranced by the
athleticism displayed by this gymnast ballerina. At the moment of her peak
height, she brought her legs together and twisted her body into a spin, her
arms encircling her head. She landed gracefully on her tiptoes, then bent her
legs and extended her arms above her head, making an illusion that she was boring
into the stage floor. She sprang upwards and brought her arms down to twist a
tight spin. With precise timing, she leaped forward out of the spin, momentum
carrying her upward to center front stage, torso and face flush with the
choreographer watching in front of the orchestral pit. She tucked her head and
flipped her legs over and down in pinwheel fashion and landed en pointe into the pose Jerry saw on the
ballet banner—the silhouette of a swan gliding across water, Christina’s eyes
looked heavenward . . . directly at Jerry.
He could not contain himself. Abruptly and
spontaneously he erupted in clapping, drawn into Christina’s imagined partner
and mesmerized as her eyes looked up into his as though she was dancing
specifically for him throughout her performance. Concerned that he would be
noticed and embarrassed by his sudden outburst of emotion, he scurried from the
balcony, bounded down the stairs to the lobby and through the auditorium main
entrance doors. Pumped with adrenaline as the sunlight hit his face, he bounded
down the limestone steps to the fountain. Venus’s arched back and bronze
breasts snapped him back to reality.
He was not the dancing Prince leading
Cinderella.
v v v
Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge
Excerpt from
PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge, a writer of transformational fiction with
characters that tell life-changing stories.
This is a
pre-published scene.
To read the
scenes sequentially, begin with
“PURSUIT: A
Novel – Prologue”
Your comments
are welcomed and appreciated. Simply check one of the reaction boxes below,
write a comment, or email me at bycambridge@gmail.com.
This novel is a
work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and
locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and
authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
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