Excerpt: From Chapter 5

The northbound traffic on the Palmetto Expressway was at its usual rush-hour standstill between NW 36th Street and the off ramp to I-75, but on this night it stood still for a couple of hours.  A near paralytic headache from a herniated neck disk came at the perfect time.  With nowhere to go, Donald had time to grow accustomed to the pain, let it ride through his head for a while and then dispose of most of it. He put his seat to full recline, shoved a Jacqueline Du Pre cello concerto into the CD player and napped until some idiot gave him a horn blast.  The next Du Pre cut was a spirited romp in accompaniment with her husband Daniel Barenboim, the great Argentinean pianist. Every time Donnie heard this piece it reminded him of a scene from the movie HIlary and Jackie, a well-crafted work based on the book written by Hilary and Piers Du Pre about their celebrated sister.  In the scene from the movie, Du Pre and Barenboim had been rehearsing laconically when Barenboim suddenly played the first few chords of the classic Kinks tune, "You Really Got Me Girl."  Together Dupre and Barenboim engaged in a peerless version of the famous tune that no rock musician in the world could dream of besting. 


 After a couple of moments of Dupre and Barenboim;'s artistry, the CD player crapped out the disk so violently that it landed on Don Cohen's lap.  He turned on the radio, selecting one of the only stations that broadcast local news:


"...of an apparent heart attack.  The 83-year old philanthropist made his mark of the community when he founded the South Florida Yiddish Culture and Experimental Arts Center in Aventura."


Donnie clicked off the radio before the end of the news story.  After a pause of about four seconds, it struck him:
"Damn, that's Milton Kravitz."  A foghorn from the Beamer behind Don's Corolla made him jump a few inches out of his seat.  When he realized that the jerk-off behind the wheel wanted him to edge his Corolla a few feet closer to the car in front of him, Cohen powered down his windows and shoved his arm up toward the sky; stiff middle finger beseeching Beamer boy to quit blowing his freaking horn.  Once again contemplating the demise of Milton Kravittz, Donnie was surprised to see Beamer boy standing inches from the Corolla's open window, a 3-iron on his right shoulder.

Donnie flashed B-boy a broad smile and said, "Hey big fella, I'd think you'd need a wood from this distance."


In the split-second it took Beamer Boy to come up with a rejoinder, Don slammed the car door into his knees, and before the golfer landed on the ground, buried a right hand to the stricken man's solar plexus.  Gasping for breath, Beamer Boy held up both arms as if to fend off Don's next attack.


"Don't worry your sweet heart, my little man.  I won't hit you again.  And I'm not even going to have you arrested for assault."


"Assault?" Beamer Boy gasped, "You hit me."


"Assault, my stupid friend, is an act which leads the victim to fear an immediate attack."


Don abandoned Beamer Boy on the ground where he'd left him and climbed back into his car, knowing that someone who'd witnessed the fray had undoubtedly called the cops.  Good fortune interceded as the traffic jam broke open just enough for him to ease the Toyota through three lanes of traffic and onto the 36th Street off ramp a couple of hundred yards north.  Once on 26th Street Don pulled into the back part of a gas station parking lot, the Corolla unseen from the highway, an evasive maneuver that ensured he wouldn't be engaged in any police business just yet.  This being Miami, he'd thought it was odd that a crowd of people hadn't gathered to cheer on the traffic jam combatants.  Perhaps they'd been so pissed off from being stuck in traffic for two hours that a minor skirmish wasn't a big deal.  After all, this is South Florida, the land of cockfights, crooked cops, a thriving narcotics trade and a murder rate that made the local news actors drool.  A couple of white boys slap fighting in the middle of a Palmetto Express traffic snarl - so what?

The rest of the ride home took Donnie through many layers of introspection.  He'd always felt sickened after instigating a violent encounter.  The fact that he'd never been punched out, arrested or had his head blown off was miraculous.  An undercurrent of anger weaved through all of his thoughts and emotions, by and large imperceptible, but ready to erupt at any moment.. Too humiliated to return home right away, Don killed three hours at the Denny;'s Restaurant near LA Fitness, picking at a Grand Slam's runny eggs, cold Canadian bacon, a glob of grits and a blueberry and pecan short stack.  Big breasted waitress.  Coffee stained teeth.  The faint smell of cigarettes in her hair.  Lovely brown eyes, as big and soulful as Audrey Hepburn's.  Something about her stirred Don a couple of levels beyond lust; a hunger that confused him nearly as much as the violence inside.


"Where you been, hon?"


"In a land far away, darling."


The feel of the waitress' tongue still in his head, Don slipped into the condo just after 4 a.m., surprised to see Mary Frances picking through the recycle bin, a crinkled bag from CVS drugs.


"Where the hell have you been?" she said after Donnie tapped her on her shoulder.


"Why are you always rooting around?" Don said.


"Hmmm?"


"I AM GOING TO BED, MOM."


He kised her on the cheek, picked up the cat and headed for his couch.