Snowbird - A Short Story

    "Anne Murray sucks", Peter Ackerman said, slamming the screen door and steeping out onto the patio. It was a beautiful early summer evening and a cool breeze bore with it the sound of happy children playing in a backyard two blocks away.

    "I might as well go back in there and apologize", Peter thought to himself. "Why should this time be any different?" In the three years that Peter and Lindsey had been married (in fact, in the entire four and a half years that they had known each other) he had never won an argument with her. He lost little battles - where the TV Guide should reside. He lost big battles - where to vacation (Peter had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, while Lindsey would not be denied her twice-yearly visit to Branson Missouri.). He lost the big-big battles, the Gettysburgs, the Midways, the Mogadishus - the battles over music.

    Peter was a confirmed "classic rock" man. Growing up in Carbondale Pennsylvania, Peter had been offered three choices by the local airwaves: "All Talk, All The Time" 97.5 FM, 99.7 FM - "Your Goodtime Country Buddy On The Dial", and 103.4 FM - simply known as "The Rock". At the age of fifteen, Peter made his choice and stuck with it.

    He met Lindsey his senior year in College. There was no real "dating" involved. They met a Young Republicans' picnic, talked for over an hour, and decided that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. A week later, they were comfortable enough with each other to hold hands. Having never had much luck with girls, Peter was willing to excuse all of the annoyances that came bundled up with Lindsey in exchange for the "privilege" of having a flesh-and-blood girlfriend (Peter had to "dump" his other girlfriend. The never seen, but often spoken of, Sally Jones who attended "Another college. One you've never heard of."). Of all Lindsey's annoyances (she collected tiny cat figurines, wrote poems about the bravery of Park Rangers, and would burst into tears whenever someone used the term "Therapeutic Abortion") the worst, in Peter's opinion, was her taste in music. Lindsey actually enjoyed "easy listening" music. Her favorite radio station was G-109 WGLD FM - "Non-confrontational Music for the Workplace." The first "concert" they had attend together was a performance, at the Student Union, by Together Once More - a Carpenters cover band. Peter hadn't wanted to go. It was the first argument he ever had with Lindsey. He lost and a pattern was set.

    Life became much worse for Peter when he and Lindsey purchased their first home in Pomona, New Jersey. Pomona is less than one hour away from Atlantic City. For Lindsey, this meant a chance to see all of her favorite acts (Well, those that were still living, which Lindsey did, on occasion, admit were in the minority of her musical pantheon. Of course there were "Tributes" to the fallen, like that wonderful "Legends" show at the Tropicana's Peacock Room.) For Peter, this meant spending three hours trying to stretch out the $20 in "gambling money" that Lindsey allowed him (Two years earlier, Peter and Lindsey had reached a compromise - that is to say, Lindsey announced "If you can't appreciate good music, then that's your problem. You can spend twenty dollars in the casino while I enjoy the show."). And so, as Lulu launched into "Don't Sleep in the Subway", Peter made his way from one nickel slot machine to another, never winning.

    "Anne Murray does not…" she almost choked on the word "…suck", Lindsey spat at Peter as he walked, head bowed, back into the house. "Not only is she a very talented performer, but I WILL be at a front row table when she performs, next month, at the Trump casino. Do we understand each other?" Peter understood all too well. Three weeks later, Peter was standing in the Trump casino and muttering "Anne Murray sucks."

    To make matters worse, every nickel slot machine in the place was being lorded over by what appeared to be an army of Grandmothers. It would now have to be the quarter slots, which meant that Peter would exhaust his allotted $20 in less than half an hour. Faced with no other choice, Peter fished about in his pocket for a quarter. He found, instead, a shiny silver dollar.

    "Looks like somebody at change booth made a mistake", Peter thought to himself. Having made many mistakes in his life, Peter felt a sudden affinity for the unknown worker who had accidentally passed him a silver dollar along with the nickels he'd asked for. For a brief moment, Peter considered returning the silver dollar, but then he turned to his left and saw The Monster.

    The Monster was a fifteen foot tall slot machine that offered the chance of a $10 million pay off. The ball at the end of its five foot long arm was so big that it had to be grasped with both hands. The Monster had not been fed in over four hours. The Monster did not eat nickels. The Monster did not eat quarters. The Monster only ate silver dollars.

    In when Peter's newly found booty. Down went The Monster's arm with no small effort on Peter's part. Then, as if in a dream, Peter watched as, one by one, six golden "T"s appeared on the face of The Monster. Lights flashed. A horn sounded. A crowd gathered. And then the Vinnies appeared.

    The crowd, instinctually, parted as two men who looked like linebackers for the Colts and wore matching name tags that simply read "Vinnie" stepped forward. "Congratulations on beating The Monster", Vinnie on left said. "We're taking you to meet Mr. Trump. I'm sure that's OK with you", Vinnie on the right said with a nod.

    With a Vinnie firmly grasping each of his arms, Peter was rushed through the casino to an elevator that a lone, but rather burley, security guard operated with a key. Up went Peter and the Vinnies. Up to the 23rd floor. They exited the elevator and ran a gauntlet of security guards who parted like the Red Sea at their approach. Finally, they stopped before a pair of large, leather padded doors. Here they waited for what seemed to Peter to be a lifetime.

    From the other side of the leather padded doors, Peter could here what sounded like a speaker phone conference. He could even, occasionally, make out a few words. He clearly heard "what", "impossible", "screwed", "solution" and "OK". And then there was a buzzing sound and Vinnie on the left said "Mr. Trump will see you now."

    As Donald Trump stood up from behind a mahogany desk the size of a lifeboat, Peter robotically put forward his hand.

    "I'm sorry but I don't shake hands," Trump said. And the deadly serious expression on his face showed that he meant it. "Germs. Now, let's slice through the shit and get down to business, Mister…?"

    "Ackerman. Peter Ackerman. It's a great plea…"

    "Yeah, OK. Whatever. Look. I'm not gonna bullshit you, OK? The economy is in the shitter and my casino's been taking it up the ass for months."

    Peter was amazed that a man of Trump's wealth and position would spew forth obscenities with the rapidity of a machine gun.

    "I'm not gonna lie to you, OK? You've just won $10 million dollars that I don't have." Trump gave this news a second to sink into Peter's head and then he continued, "You could take me to court, but, frankly, that would end up costing you $11 million and it might be very bad for your health. I do own a concrete company, you know?"

    Silence entered the room and made itself comfortable on "The Donald"'s huge couch. It only got up to stretch its legs when Trump said, "Or…you could settle for a blow job from none other than Miss Anne Murray."

    "Did you just say…?"

    "The choice is yours, Mr. Ackerman. Twenty years of fucking around in court, or the sweetest hummer you've ever had in your life. May I suggest that you make up your mind quickly? Miss Murray goes on stage in…?"

    "Seven minutes", Vinnie on the right added, helpfully.

    "No", Peter thought "I'd be betraying Lindsay. The woman I love. The only woman I've ever been with. The woman who, for the last four years, had…"

    "OK", Peter said before he even realized he'd opened his mouth.

    "Great. Well, times wasting," said Trump clapping his hands together. "Let's get moving."

    The Vinnies, The Donald, and Peter raced back to the private elevator. As they dropped passed the 18th floor, Peter tuned to Donald Trump and asked "Are you sure that Anne Murray will go for this?"

    "Well, I kinda told her that you were dying of some incurable disease - measles, I think I said - and that your last wish was for her to whittle your dingy. She just said 'Nothing's too good for one of my fans'. Anne's a real trooper. She's Canadian, you know."

    "Really?" said Vinnie on the right.

    Trump playfully elbowed Peter and said "Hey, I guess you can think of this as a foreign affair."

    Donald Trump reminded Peter of the Fraternity boys that he'd met in college.

    "You know, "said Trump "I bet if you acted really super sick, she'd snowball you."

    A wave of confused crashed upon the beach of Peter's face. Reading the tide, Trump shrugged and said "never mind, simple blow job it is."

    Three minutes later, Peter was standing backstage, being introduced to Anne Murray. Peter almost said "Wow, if only my wife were here."

    After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Anne Murray dropped to her knees, undid Peter's belt, and went to work on his member. A few feet away, Donald Trump turned to the Vinnies and said "Damn, she's good. I've seen sixty year old Taiwanese hookers with less cock sucking ability."

    From a far corner of the backstage area another voice said "Two minutes, Miss Murray."

    One of the problems with summer at the Jersey shore is the overabundance of under qualified summer workers. It really shouldn't have surprised anyone that the high school student in charge of lowering and raising the curtain would do so two minutes early.

    The loud gasping sound the audience collectively let loose upon witnessing Anne Murray pleasing a stranger with a ferocity that would've made a porn star blush, caused Peters eyelids to spring open as his head jerked in the direction of the audience. His eyes came to rest on Lindsey, seated not more that twenty feet away.

    A parade of feelings marched through Peter's head. Lust gave way to shame. Shame gave way to self loathing. Self loathing gave way to more "suicidal" feelings. But then a new feeling came marching in. Triumph.

    Peter stared at his wife, who seemed on the verge of fainting. He pointed down at Anne Murray who, oblivious to what had happened, continued to furiously fellate him and, as a smile spread across his lips, he said "See? I told you, didn't I? Anne Murray sucks!"