Illusion

ILLUSION

           

Ryan sat with two friends at the bar, watching a ballgame.  He sat with one hand holding a mug of ale, growing warm, and the other fingering the money is his pocket.  Twenty five dollars equals five beers or four beers and a shot.  He paced himself as Ray and George raced through beers and shots and mixed drinks, rum and coke, whiskey and ginger ale, tequila straight up and chilled.  He sat silent and sullen as Ray laughed and drank, as George agreed and paid for shots and fun. 

            “You have to do one shot.”  Ray insisted, for what seemed the thousandth time in less than an hour.  Ryan nodded in agreement, as per always, usual, never going to happen.

The seventh inning stretch came with three shots and another round of beers.  As a fat man in expensive clothes crooned, edging sharp and pinched, Ray talked of women.     

“Women are no different than boats or cars.  You need a portfolio on a date today, not pick up lines.”

            George nodded in agreement, as always, as usual.    

As Ray spoke, the lottery drawing for the night interrupted for a moment the commercial break.  Ryan pulled a ticket from his pocket, but didn’t look, his focus remaining on Ray.

            “It’s all about the money.”  Ray said, through a thick smile laden with secrets and knowledge.

            “Plenty of men without money find women to spend their lives with.”  George countered.  His argument felt and sounded false.  He loved playing the other side of any coin, for his own amusement.            ‘Five,’ the announcer read.

            “Things will never change, George.  To the winner goes the spoil.”

            ‘Thirteen.’

            Ryan looked at his ticket, two for two.

            “You speak in clichés.”  George responded. 

            “Women are not bought so easily as a car or a house.  There are other factors.”

            ‘19, 23, 36...’

            Ryan clenched his mug, not believing.  Five for five, one number to go, a drawing worth in excess of ten million dollars.

            “I know, tired, but true.  If you have money, you’ll never suffer loneliness.  Women will fall over you in their attempts to get your money.”

            ‘54.’

            The room seemed to stop, even as Ray and George continued to speak and drink and smoke.  Ryan failed to hear and their lips moved in water motion, not forming words or sentences.

            “I think I won.”  He said, softly, in a near whisper.

            Ray ignored his utterance and get on with his thesis.  “Capitalism is the system of capital.  Those without capital are used by those at the top.  The lack of capital makes one a tool of the machine instead of being one that receives its benefits.”

            ‘5, 13, 19, 23, 36, and 54,’ the announcer repeated.

            “Guys, I won.”  Ryan said, this time with more force.

            Ray and George stopped speaking, drinking and smoking to look at him.  Moment passed into several in silence, bar life moving on around them, ignoring them.  Ryan repeated the words to himself, tears in his eyes.  The bar and those around him faded into nothingness.

            Ryan woke early the next morning with a hangover, yet with a burning desire to begin his day.  In the drunken moments of clarity before sleep he had planned the day down to the minute.  Beside his bed he saw the list, scribbled drunken madness, which he made at three in the morning.         

Pay creditors, purchase a car, preferably foreign, call parents and most important, visit the wife store.  He stared at that last part for some moments, wondering and bewildered. 

            “The wife store?”  He said to himself in astonishment. He rolled from the bed and grabbed the business directory from his desk.  He opened and searched, finding with speed and further astonishment:          

            The Wife Store.  30 Institute Dr.

            He blinked his eyes as if doubting his vision, but the advertisement remained, promising all shapes and sizes of women for sale.  He ripped the page from the book and dressing quickly, made for the door.

            Outside, a warm cloudless summer day, free of humidity greeted him.  As he walked down the steps to the driveway he noticed a row of maples along the edge of the yard. 

            “Maples?”  He whispered.  He shook his head, knowing those maple trees not to be there the previous day.  As he reached his parking spot he saw a brand new sports coupe in the place of his older model economy sedan.  He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, and instead of the ones familiar to him, pulled out a set of keys strange to his eyes.  The key matched the car.  He put it in the lock, as if following unspoken directions, and opened the door.

            He started the ignition and pressed the accelerator, not believing the sound of power under him.  He backed out of the driveway and with a squeal of the tires drove down the boulevard.  A voice in the car gave him directions, which he followed.  A few turns and stoplights led him to the corner of Institute and Main.  He saw the sign a block ahead and pulled in front of the store.  A man wearing a burgundy suit with a white rose in the shoulder pocket met him at the curb.

            “Welcome sir, come right this way.”  The man led him to the front door and opened it, leading him inside.

            He followed the man into a spacious lobby, an open space with a couch and chair against one wall and a desk in the back of the room, behind which sat a pretty brunette.  She stood as they entered, smiling and gracious.

            “You must be Ryan.”  She said, extending her hand.  Her smile seemed permanent, her hand warm and smooth.

            “How did you know?”  He stammered.

            “You made an appointment, remember.”  She said with a wink.  She led him by the hand down a corridor, talking as they walked.

            “We’ve assembled a group of women we believe will be to your liking, according to the answers given on your questionnaire.  The women are divided into groups of price, quality and age.”

            She opened a door at the corridor’s end, which gave way to a wide room, filled with rows of women.  The women each stood on a small circular podium and in front of each hung a placard with various details.

            Ryan stood in the doorway, overcome with bewilderment and amazement.  To his left stood a blonde of medium height, naked save the heels upon her feet.        The secretary pointed to the placard next to the blonde.   “She is five foot seven, one hundred and twenty five pounds.  Cup size thirty four C, waist size 5.  She is clean in every respect; all of our women are given a full physical.  She can cook; sew, as can most all our products, and additionally, she is licensed in physical therapy.  Her price is one hundred thousand, with a yearly upkeep fee of ten thousand.’

            Ryan moved past her and began looking at the other women.  A brunette whose placard promised cooking as well as gardening skills, cup size 36 C, at the price of one hundred twenty.  Another blonde, cup size 34 D, a tailor and clothes designer, master of Italian cuisine, priced 135 K.

            As he moved on, the price rose.  175 thousand for what the placard termed ‘a budding product.’  Indeed, item number twenty five stood no more than five foot two, her breasts no more than promises, her slender waist giving way to thin tight thighs and calves. 

            “How old is she?”  He asked the secretary.

            “She is as young as you want her to be.”  She answered the same smile of permanence on her face. 

            Item twenty five smiled at him and pointed at the second line of the description tagged to her.

            ‘Virgin in all respects, sexually and otherwise.’ Ryan moved on, to the last woman in line.  She seemed not to be in keeping with the others.  He found her to be less attractive, her placard near empty of skills or points to recommend her.  However, to his shock, her price read two hundred and fifty thousand, with a yearly upkeep of twenty five.  Her brown hair seemed too thin to him, her shoulders too narrow, and thighs without the requisite flesh.  Her eyes stared back at him, light brown and plain, lacking emotion. 

            “Why does she cost so much?”  Ryan asked.

            The secretary laughed and pointed to the description.

            Mute.  Ryan looked at her, item twenty six, seeing thin lips and unremarkable features.  He turned to the secretary.

            “How will she express her adoration of me?”    

The secretary seemed shocked and for a moment, her permanent smile faltered.

            “Sir?”  She asked, as if she did not hear him.

            “How will she express her love for me?”  He asked again.

            “Love?”  She asked, laughing.  Her laughing continued, on and on, for millions of years.  Ryan felt dizziness in his head and reached a hand out for support.  Her laughter rang in his ears as he fell, down and down.

            Ray and George talked on and on, as Ryan stared.  The game seemed to stall in the ninth, a third pitcher called on to record a single out. 

“I know what I know.”  Ray said.  George nodded to the agreement of his victory. 

Ryan took his money from his pocket and placed it on the bar, standing as he did so.  He looked at Ray, sadness in his eyes.

“You don’t know shit, friend.”