Page 67 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

sity of an escape route. It seemed odd that those in the city didn’t find a way to get together more often. But even if adult life catapulted them outward by some centrifugal force and permitted only intermit- tent contact, he was glad to still be a member of their circle. If they had forgotten him, nudged him off the list, he wouldn’t have been invited at all.
The one unfamiliar face there was Monica’s partner― longtime boyfriend or better half―Judd never found out. He had always liked Monica, her raspy voice, large blond bangs, her subtlety, optimism and kind nature, all of which remained in evidence that day. “Oh Judd, this is Kent,” she said, all at once realizing they were strangers. “Kent, this is one of our best buds from our wild and woolly days at Oberon.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard about you. Quite the quiet one in your day as I recall,” Kent said with a hint of genial conspiracy.
"The back and forth managed to sum
up the essence of this era in their lives, minus the divorces, financial rever- sals, and other calamities which were elided."
Judd’s first impressions of Kent were his rakish Panama Hat, its streaked auburn sash encircling the middle, and jaunty dip of the brim. That and the large set of front teeth, which he prominently displayed, usually after the punchline of one of his own jokes. He seemed charming at the outset, hanging back
just enough to suggest he conceded being one of the minor players, not one of the original troupe.
“You look familiar. Do you ever go to the track?” he asked, cocking his head, as if the changed angle might jar loose a clearer memory.
“No, I swore off gambling early. I didn’t seem to have the knack.”
“I’ve known people like that. They kept losing their shirts. Snake bitten. If that’s the case, it probably won’t change. You’re better off staying away.” Kent
nodded in a manner that might have been a form of superiority or disapproval―it was impossible to deci- pher which—before other tangents quickly overtook them.
Marcie, whose husband had also stayed behind, launched into a story about one of her tax clients
who wanted her to write off his regular forays to
strip clubs as a business expense. Noel was the real center of attention, though he made no effort to claim it. Now an official in the state department on tempo- rary assignment with the EU, he had always been an adventurer. He’d joined the Peace Corps right out of college, landing in some godawful African backwater. Judd was so provincial that he could listen to Noel for hours, trying to take in some of that exotic experience by proxy.
After a couple drinks, maybe set off by Noel’s travels, Kent became more animated. “We went down to Panama last year. Beautiful country. The dollar goes a long way. We were in the capital and we went into a bar on the main drag. It was owned by Roberto Duran. Remember, the fighter? ‘Hands of stone,’ they said about him. Well, he was there singing with the band. Terrible voice but he was the former light- weight champion for god’s sake. We got a picture.” At that point, he took out his cell phone and kiddingly made a few quick jabs and uppercuts beside it, then passed the photograph around. They were all arm in arm, the boxer looking a little drunk and bored. He was probably forty pounds over his fighting weight.
“I just remember how his career ended,” Roger said, as the others strained for a good vantage. “No mas.”
“Yeah, I used that phrase with the friends we went down there with,” Kent responded, his eyes moving steadily around the ring of them, “and I must have been a little loud because one of the locals came up to me and whispered, ‘don’t say that in here. He doesn’t like it.'”
It was clear everyone enjoyed the story; the way Kent told it, the rhythms and inflection marked him as something of a raconteur. Kent’s verbal facility enabled him to speak with incredible speed to get through the minor details and knew where to put the emphasis, slowing dramatically for the climax. Judd had never exhibited a gift for that, was too with- drawn, his mind not working in a narrative manner. In any assembly, he might interject here and there with a modicum of intelligence, with most of what
he thought withheld, as if he kept running into some
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