Chapter 3
St. Rose of Lima Church, the working-class version of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, lies tucked between two other downtown Chicago monoliths. Neither of St. Rose’s sisters had nor needed names. At one time or another, both had hosted this or that St. Rose activity, providing a staging ground for the inevitable overflow of parishioners intent upon receiving a benediction from the Archbishop, or hoping to catch a glimpse of Cardinal Cushing when he bestowed his presence upon the oh-so-fortunate faithful.
Twenty-seven years old. You can’t learn shit in twenty-seven years... no wonder the kid didn’t believe in God. William Franklin Bowman sat bolt upright in the elegant high-backed chair, his hands clenched on the ebony-stained hardwood runners. From place to place, people mingled in small groups throughout the vestibule, no one quite knowing what to say or how to act. Silently, Billy B pondered whether more than four or five of these people had known Stats as anything more than the weird nerd who hoarded Moon-Pies and wore garish tie-dyed t-shirts. How many in the room had ever been to his apartment or shared a pizza or drank a beer with him at Mulligan’s? But, here they are, nevertheless... all decked out in their black finery, paying tribute to a kid they barely knew, even to speak. “Mrs. Sizemore, I’m so sorry for your loss. Your son was a fine lad and a credit to his profession... Er, excuse me, tell me again, please, what exactly did you say his profession was?” Apparently, it wasn’t tragic enough that a young man (no more than a boy, really) suffered some sort of ill-defined seizure sufficient to stop his heart. It now seemed necessary for all The Suits to descend upon the family with the standard party-line mumbo-jumbo, intent upon inflicting as much well-meaning torture as possible before finishing their paper cup filled with strawberry-orange punch and returning to their health clubs for that much-needed sauna and massage. Funerals are so stressful... Some tribute. What a freaking waste...
Stock still, Billy sat refusing to be comforted or to acknowledge his grief. If allowed foothold, it would surely consume him. Instead, he busied himself with other thoughts... experiences he and Stats shared.
Stats and Billy loved to play the game 'Who Would You Rather Sleep With?' a nonsensical farce at best. It started a couple of years back, when they argued over who held the greater sex appeal and desirability, Nicole Kidman or Elle McPherson. Both men argued their choice, defending it fiercely and backing it up with whatever factual data was either known or suspected to be true. Sometimes one or the other actually knew it wasn't true, but if it sounded good, he'd use it anyway. They didn't keep score, but it gave them grist for the mill. One-ups-man-ship, in a bizarre way, Billy and Stats considered a quasi-intellectual pursuit, since it involved spending time reading something other than sports publications. Lately, the game had taken a twisted turn. No longer did either preface a question with 'Who would you rather sleep with'- it became implicit. Stats might offer something like “Twiggy or Madeline Murray O'Hair?” or even “The woman who plays Mimi on the Drew Carey Show or Lassie?” Lately, no valid reason existed to restrict the game to the human race. Among a couple of suave savants such as themselves, nothing fell outside the boundaries of inquisition. Invariably, the choices and answers would bring chortle after chortle as the game, at best a poster-child for political incorrectness, degenerated into a ‘Zappa-On-Acid’ Theatre For The Bizarre. From time to time, they tried to get Cassie to play along with them, but she didn't take to it naturally. Somehow, the humor didn't translate to the female of the species. Of course, this only encouraged them to annoy and torture her with their sophomoric inquiries, their infantile remarks invariably chasing her from the booth with fingers in both her ears, while high-fives and shit-eating grins accompanied her departure.
Casandra Blythe Worthing represented everything enigmatic to Bill and Stats. Her demeanor and poise, in the course of her job, presented the image of old money and good breeding. She kept just the right professional distance from her peers at all times, while offering the two a supportive shoulder if needed. If asked to sum up her charms, Billy would have expressed his inability to understand how she could go all these months without falling at his feet in a tangled, frustrated, groveling mass of built-up sexual need, due (naturally) to her daily prolonged exposure to his charged-up pheromones alone should have been enough to force her to succumb. Billy continually reminded her that it wasn't good for a person to hold her feelings inside, and if she'd like to retire to that spare office on the 23rd floor, he'd feel it an obligation to spend an hour or so counseling her. 'In your dreams, sucker' became her stock answer, as Billy threw up his hands in mock disbelief, muttering ' The woman has the strength of Job' while walking away shaking his head.
In addition, Cassie knew hockey as well as most NHL player personnel directors and was known to frequent some of the better saloons and sports bars downtown after work. There she had become a legend in her own time, swilling shots of Cuervo Gold and sucking the lemon with all the gusto and abandon of a Canal Street hustler. Cassie represented a contradiction in terms to the guys at the office, the enigmatic efficiency-freak/longshoreman, and both of her co-workers would have killed for her.
William Franklin 'Billy B' Bowman sat bolt upright in the elegant high-backed chair, hands clenched on the ebony-stained hardwood runners that absorbed his ferocity, and veins popped out of his forehead as he stared intently into the nothingness that had become his world. Where the hell are you, Cassie? How can you have the balls not to show up?