Everyone got them — the infectious smiling greetings. Even the non-tippers who religiously devoured their double-shot lattes that took damn near 10 minutes to make. The hotties and the mouseburgers. The workers, the writers, the meet and greeters. It didn’t matter. Yeah, Kiley treated everyone equally.
He could do that because he kept his secrets locked away. Smiles outside, secrets inside. Secrets kept company by a dark side no one at the coffee shop knew.
Kiley’s room-to-rent defined minimalism. A dresser. A record player with albums — not CDs — stacked next to it. Black Flag, Clash, Rick Springfield. A bookcase loaded with paperbacks he bought for 25 cents each at library sales. Le Carre, Machiavelli, Judy Blume. An encyclopedia set someone left out on trash day. A black-and-white TV. An old knit Army hat. He worked at the coffee shop and everyone thought he was great, knew his java and was friendly. Few knew his past life.
He had been one of the largest private equity-firm owners — not brokers, owners — in the region. He was The Mover and The Shaker. Only one thing stopped him from reaching the billionaire’s mark: Roulette.
The white ball dancing around the black and red stripes did to him what competitors and the media and everyone else couldn’t. It broke him. He lost it all and wound up schlepping coffee.
He ground, he filtered, he poured, he served. Coffee was a cover, helped get him straight to think, to clear the gambling problem. But he had another passion.
Soccer.
Not soccer-mom type, but real soccer. Aggressive, European, precision passing, with rabid fans. It was the only reason he had cable, that and “Meet the Press.”
Tonight was special. He could afford to smile. Because tonight would be Kiley watching his beloved Pato Real against Mariposa United.
The night started with Chinese, the usual chicken with broccoli and rice, at the place downstairs. The owner loved him — hell, everyone did — and he paid cash, not like a lot of Mrs. Liu-bing’s customers.
Satisfied, he brought the remainder upstairs, fortune cookie and all, and put on some music.
“Waited soo long, waited soo long,” Eddie Money crooned.
Kiley sang with him, bastardizing the lyrics.
“I’ve got — two tickets to paradise! Won’t you — pack your bags, we’ll leave tonight! … That’s right ‘Posa, you’re going down tonight!”
Kiley laughed at his lyrical change.
The game was a draw in every sense — some threats, then pullbacks. Back and forth with no goals, the teams felt each other out until halftime.
He paced, poured himself a shot of tequila to calm his nerves, and cracked the cookie.
“Fame and Fortune will be in your stars” it read.
“Yeah,” he thought. “Fame, fortune.”
He lost his fortune, he was waiting on his fame. But he’d settle for a Pato win.
It was more than an hour and several shots later in the penalty-minutes stage when Pato’s star, Javito Annunciado, broke free. He raced up midfield and created a give-and-go with his wing. After the pass he really turned it on, dropping his man like a bad habit, racing past the defense. His wing laid it in perfectly, and the shot was there. He angled left and thrust his leg out, rocketing the ball past the diving goaltender. Kiley screamed — this was it, the win!
No.
The ball smashed into the post and ricocheted to a Mariposa defender who — in one motion — turned and punted. His center raced to it, headed it off just one bounce near a Pato Real defender, and scrambled to gain control. Baja Tomatillo, the Mariposa center, was alone, just as Javito had been seconds earlier. Tomatillo came in from the right, juked the goalie and — instead of the rocket everyone expected — deftly tapped the ball between the posts.
The crowd rushed the field. Players dropped to the ground. TV crews screamed in Spanish. And Kiley sat stunned.
As the TV droned, Kiley’s room seemed darker, and smaller. He sat on the bed, not remembering the beginning of the game when he stretched out, relaxed, stomach full of Mrs. Liu-Bing’s No. 13, sipping tequila from a mug with the slogan inked across it, “Coffee: Legal Crack.” He was tensed, hunched, and stunned. He slowly rose and stared in the mirror over the dresser. The mug dropped from his hand, his arms hung at his side.
He gazed at the ceramic salt-and pepper shakers shaped like little soccer balls on the dresser. He had picked them up on a trip to Mexico City, spotting the pair in a bay window displaying everything from genuine replicas of bulls’ horns to frayed, colorful scarves. He had fun bartering that day. He had closed dozens of deals and had millions to his name at the time, but damn it felt good to save a few pesos and beat the guy on his own turf.
“Damn Javito! Damn Baja!” He slammed his hand, shattering the shakers. Jagged pieces ricocheted against the wall. The part with the holes to let the salt out cracked off and shot across the room, hitting the doorknob. A large, sharp piece sliced his hand, splurting blood across the TV where he had just watched Pato lose. It didn’t matter it was an exhibition game. It didn’t matter he didn’t speak Spanish. What mattered was Pato had lost to Mariposa, the bastards.
Kiley stumbled to the bathroom and wound gauze around the wound.
He managed another tequila shot — forget the lemon and salt and all that crap; he’d drink like a man. He slammed it and fell back on the pillow. He could hear fans’ rhythmic chants, “ ‘Posa, ‘Posa, Pato, Pato,” as the room spun. It was a good thing he set the alarm on the Mickey Mouse clock earlier, otherwise he’d miss his java shift. Tomorrow morning, he mused, he’d have to come up with a story, a good story, about his hand. He’d keep smiling. He’d keep his secrets — for now. And they’d still love him.
Marc Bona lives in Akron, Ohio.
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18 Responses to “SHAKERS • by Marc Bona”
Comments
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July 6th, 2009 at 12:22 am
It’s called football. Because, you know, like, you basically play it with your feet. So this fellow isn’t really an afficionado of the game, just a wannabe.
July 6th, 2009 at 2:27 am
yes the language is wrong for football (soccer) – penalty minutes? wing? (should be winger).. I could go on.
I liked his room though.
July 6th, 2009 at 3:18 am
More a character sketch than a story, I thought.
July 6th, 2009 at 4:23 am
I don’t know enough about soccer to pick up on the vocabulary issues–those are things that Mr.Bona easily could (and should) fix. Calling this “more a character sketch than a story” raises questions in my mind, however. What does a “story” need that is lacking here?
I have trouble believing that a man can lose SO MUCH–going from owning a large private-equity firm to living in his current squalid conditions seems an improbable fall to me, especially if I add in Kiley’s anonymity. However, if I ignore that issue, I like the story. And I like the double-meaning of the title “Shakers.”
July 6th, 2009 at 4:47 am
I like this excellent character study very much. I don’t know a thing about soccer, and what’s more, I don’t intend to take the time to research the rules, so there may be a part of the story I’m completely missing. But the development of character, the detailed description of his meager room to limn his current life are great and kept me absorbed in the story despite the length given to the pastime, soccer, which I couldn’t follow and know nothing about.
July 6th, 2009 at 4:55 am
A few structural issues – the first sentence, for one. But none of the issues are bad enough to ruin this tale.
That said, there’s nothing compelling enough to “make” this tale, either. At the end, I was indifferent to Kiley.
July 6th, 2009 at 5:46 am
Really great piece of characterization. I could feel it when he smashed the shakers.
July 6th, 2009 at 5:52 am
As Roberta noted, I think that it is a very good character study. This man had it all, and lost it all. It is, though, important to him that those about him “love him.” Soccer vs. football. I don’t think that stuff really matters. If I read a story set in the UK and it’s called football, my mind accepts it. A lift, an elevator. A boot, a trunk. I took the story to be set in the US, so soccer is acceptable to me.
July 6th, 2009 at 6:32 am
I agree with the “character-sketch-not-a-story” opinions. That in itself is enough to turn me off.
But I really lost it when the play by play soccer game started. I know squat about soccer, don’t watch it, and certainly am NOT able to follow a description of a game. (Some say it was poorly written, wrong words and such, **I** certainly can’t tell!)
And the ending confused me, maybe by this time I had just lost track because of the other problems, but I have NO CLUE why he broke the salt shakers.
July 6th, 2009 at 6:58 am
When Kiley slammed his hand on the table in consternation over his team’s loss, it jarred the shakers on the table (which he felt he acquired in a winning barter at a market),accicidently shattering them against the wall with loss of that earlier barter.
This is a very well-written STORY of a winner-turned-loser constructed of lively and absorbing characterization and description.
July 6th, 2009 at 7:18 am
Interesting and well written slice of somebody’s life. I liked this.
July 6th, 2009 at 7:50 am
I really liked this. I don’t know anything about soccer, so found myself skimming over that bit, but that didn’t wreck it for me.
July 6th, 2009 at 8:33 am
“Much Ado About Nothing!”
July 6th, 2009 at 8:33 am
Some very good writing. But I thought it was let down by the lack of story-telling and some strange lapses in reality.
If he owned a Private Equity firm, he would understand risk and probability enough to not get hooked on gambling. And to fall from grace is one thing, but to go from those heights to coffee-shop assistant is too unlikely to pass without explanation.
Secondly those football teams. “Mariposa United”? That means “Butterfly United”. And the other team was ‘Royal Duck’?
Shame. It is good writing, but without real direction.
July 6th, 2009 at 8:54 am
I liked this story very much and found it as complete as any 30-minute episode of Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock Presents–minus a creepy ending. Poor shakers! I do think he smashed them deliberately.
July 6th, 2009 at 10:56 am
Jenny – It might have been the gambling aspect that interested him in both equities and gaming, although of course equities involves reason and knowledge. He just might have had the wild desire to sow his wild oats, throw caution and tensions to the wind and trust to luck alone in fun, carefree gambling. Some people call this mid-life crisis.
July 8th, 2009 at 11:50 pm
I enjoyed the story and sympathised with your MC, but I felt the description of the football game went on for too long.
But then I prefer Rugby.
July 9th, 2009 at 3:44 pm
Nice little slice of life piece, but I can’t say I felt much for Kiley.