Free Ringer by Brian M Wiprud Page A

her, her body language translates a green light. She is telling you to ask for her number, and even perhaps more.
    “I have to go as well. I really must eat. Would you care to join me?”
    “I’d love to, Morty, but I have to get home to feed and walk my dog.”
    “As I am from out of town on business and really have nothing to do but go back to the room and watch television, I would gladly accompany you on the walk so that we might continue our stimulating conversation.”
    She smiled and laughed gently. “You have a very cute way of speaking, Morty, you really do.”
    Two insults in one—but I knew she did not mean it that way.
    “You like dogs, Morty?”
    “Dogs? But of course. Who among us does not like a dog?”
    I signaled for the bill. It came.
    “Excuse me a moment, Vim.”
    I found the waiter at the end of the bar.
    “You mean to tell me each of those bottles was three hundred dollars?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I thought you said thirty.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Tip is included.”
    “At thirty dollars a drink I would hope that a four-course meal and a box of condoms would be included.”
    “There are free condoms in the bathroom.”
    “Yes, thank you, I already prevailed myself of some.”
    I went back to Vim.
    “Anything wrong, Morty?”
    “Of course not, querida. The waiter, he only charged me for one of the bottles, not both.”
    She stood and smoothed her dress around her delightful behind. “And you told him? I’m not sure I would have at three hundred dollars a bottle.”
    “Well, I would hate to see him get in trouble.” Might as well take the opportunity to look flush in front of the girl.
    Six hundred simolions! Ay-yi-yi! Plus for the wine. I was in for almost seven hundred. To be fair, the concierge told me it was expensive, and he gave me the choice of paying for the sex outright. I reminded myself about the millions I had in Banco Cortez and kept my smile.
    Outside, I hailed a cab, but Vim said we could walk. The June night was warm and breezy, so we walked.
    It was a fine night, and as we walked, I inhaled the sweet fragrance of her fruity shampoo and felt her arm brush mine. I told her about Sparky, the mutt I had as a kid, about how I trained him, how he would try to climb trees after squirrels, how he was afraid of cats. “Yes, I loved that dog dearly.”
    “That’s so nice.”
    “As fate would have it, he was hit by a train.”
    “A train!”
    “We were poor and lived near the subway where it was depressed into the ground. Sparky and I were playing fetch. I threw the Frisbee, the wind caught it, and Sparky leaped after it.”
    “Oh, no!” Vim grasped my arm. “That’s horrible.”
    I nodded sadly, flexing my jaw muscle to make it look like I might cry. “And you know, as he fell he caught that Frisbee, midair. Just before the Q train hit him.”
    Now Vim was stroking the back of my neck and kissed my cheek. “Morty, that is so horrible, you must have been devastated.”
    “I of course blame myself. Had I only thrown the Frisbee the other way…”
    Now Vim hugged me.
    I’m not trying to turn this into an instructional video, but I hope the men will see the logic of my fiction. I never had a dog, Sparky or otherwise. I do not consider this fiction a lie. People tell stories all the time. The way I look at it, this is all part of the game. It is all enhancement. Women wear makeup, they wear push-up bras, they wear perfume, and high heels improve the curve of their legs. And let us not forget about the implants. Is this all a lie? Men are entitled to enhance themselves as well. So they suck in their gut, they puff out their chests, they act like money is not important, they shave and make their jobs sound more important. Some tell stories that may or may not have a basis in anything that actually happened to them. I will bet you a hundred dollars that someone out there had a dog named Sparky that chased a Frisbee onto the railroad tracks and was killed.