The Man Who Can't Be Moved

There’s various states and levels of intoxication when it comes to Max and his ability to guzzle booze like no one else I’ve ever seen before in my entire life. He’s never a ‘sloppy’ or a nasty drunk; regardless of how much he puts away, he’s never the type that takes two people to practically carry him from the club or that passes out in the back of a cab on the way home and you have to slap awake because you know there’s no goddamn way you’re ever getting him out of there and into his place on your own. He doesn’t become unbearably obnoxious or mean; he isn’t the type that treats people like worthless pieces of shit simply because he’s under the influence. He’s always been a decent drunk; the type that you love to be around because he’s the life of every party and isn’t afraid to make himself look like a complete idiot for the sake of getting a few laughs out of people. Max isn’t above getting up on stage at a bar and indulging in karaoke night; he’s got an insane amount of confidence and draws attention -especially from females- no matter what he does or wherever he goes.

The first stage on the ‘Maxime Talbot Intoxication Spectrum’ is the loveable drunk; constantly declaring his undying love, loyalty and devotion to his friends and incessantly hugging you, kissing your cheek or tousling your hair. Next comes loud and slightly obnoxious and crude; chattering non stop in that Frenglish of his and cracking dirty jokes and spewing profanity every second word. Last but certainly not least, is the sensitive drunk; the one that will sit across a table from you and listen to you ramble on and on about your personal problems, who will -his speech slurred and his eyes glassy and the stench of alcohol streaming out of every pore- attempt to give you well meaning advice and then get emotional and weepy over the state of his own life or things that had happened to him growing up that have seemingly scarred him for life. Once he’s gotten past that final stage -or skipped it entirely, depending on how much JD he’s actually consumed- he becomes solemn and quiet and closes himself off from the rest of the world; he sits somewhere all by himself and doesn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

This is the stage we’re at now. It’s shortly before midnight and Max is in a world all of his own; flat on his back as he lays stretched out along the smaller part of Flower’s black leather sectional couch, one leg dangling over the edge and the other draped over the arm. There’s a determined, focused expression etched on his face as he concentrates on the PSP clutched in his hands, and a bottle of beer sits wedged in between his body and the back of the sofa. He doesn’t pay even the slightest bit of attention to Staalsy and Flower at the back of the basement, where they bicker and hurl insults back and forth about who’s the better pool player, who understands the rules better and who may or may not be cheating and why. Tanger and I ignore them for the most part as we sit on the longer side of the section couch and battle it out in yet another fierce match NHL ‘08 on the Xbox; Tanger’s got his baseball cap turned backwards and the most intense, shit kicking expression plastered across his face that I’ve ever seen in my entire life. He’s a horribly sore loser; he’s like a whiny child throwing a temper tantrum whenever someone scores against him and tosses the controller across the room if he loses a game.

Noise continues to both drift downstairs from the kitchen and increase in volume; the alcohol is flowing freely and being consumed -at least by those free to booze it up considering Vero’s pregnancy and the ‘is she or isn’t she’ mystery surrounding Peyton- at break neck speed and the profanity laced conversations are shockingly loud and the giggling and shrieking ear piercing and window rattling. Every time I hear Em’s talk my stomach twists and contorts and my heart nearly leaps clear out of my chest; her voice and her laugh had been such a huge part of my life and there’s no words to adequately express how much I’ve missed hearing them. How much I’ve missed her period. I’d spent the past five months clinging to vivid recollections of what she sounds and looks like; how that musical giggle never failed to brighten up even the shittiest of days, how she tosses her head backwards when she’s letting loose a full out belly laugh and how her eyes dance and the corners wrinkle each and every time she smiles. I’d taken those things for granted when we’d been together; I hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate all of the little things that made her who she was. I hadn’t really appreciated her at all to be honest; I’d taken her presence for granted and I’d always assumed that she’d be around no matter how rocky things got between us. As far as I’d been concerned, Em hadn’t needed me; I was the only person that could protect her and keep her safe and I was the only one that could help her get her head on straight. I had believed that it simply wasn’t possible that another man could love her as much as I did let alone even more than me. That no matter how rough things got she’d stick around because I had her wrapped around my finger; she wasn’t going to leave me because of who I was and what I could give her.

I’d been completely selfish in my thinking and it had come back to completely bite me in the ass. I’d sent her back to Pittsburgh with the best of intentions; we’d only be separated for a couple of days and I had every intention of finding her the best doctor, medication and therapist money could buy. I hadn’t shipped her off because I didn’t want to be bothered with her. I hadn’t abandoned her at a vulnerable, difficult time in her life and I certainly hadn’t expected anyone to ‘save her’ or scoop her up like some wounded little bird that needed to be nursed back to health. Max had taken it upon himself to play ‘knight in shining armour’; he’d fucking betrayed me and had jumped at the opportunity to turn Emma-Leigh against me because he’d known that she was too weak to argue’ too fragile to resist the charm that he no doubt drowned her in. And every time I think about the two of them together, every time my mind dares to remember how it had felt when I’d found out they’d gotten married or when I’d seen them kissing in Flower’s driveway, all the hate and the bitterness for Max returns. It disgusts me to see that wedding band on his finger; the way it glitters in the overhead lights every time he reaches across his body to grab his bottle of beer. He has no business wearing that ring; he has no fucking right to have Em legally branded as his and the thought of her having his last name and sharing a bed with him and making love with him….

Well let’s just say it makes me regret ever convincing Mario to let Max stick around.

*******

“Pour l’amour du Christ…” Tanger suddenly mumbles, snapping me out of my reverie and causing me to refocus on the video game we’re immersed in. It’s not until Max gives a chuckle and a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth that I realize what my buddies are both horrified and amused by. Up in the kitchen, a very drunk Emma-Leigh is having a conversation with a completely sober but equally as hyper Peyton involving the size of their respective partners’ ‘package’.

“Honest to God, he barely has any room in his pants to keep the thing reigned in,” Em is gushing, and judging by that twinkle in Max’s eye and the smile on his face, he’s not in the least bit offended that his wife is bragging about his ‘junk’. “Not that I’m complaining,” she continues. “’Cause something like that is definitely doing a huge service to the female population, know what I mean?”

The cackling erupts once again and both Tanger and I shake our heads in disdain while Max calmly and coolly sips his beer and keeps his eyes riveted on the PSP. I’m sure hearing women bragging about his equipment is nothing new to him I’d be able to handle it if it was anyone but Emma-Leigh talking about it. Hearing her talk like that, hearing my Em talk about another man in that way? Well it makes me want to vomit. And I can’t help but want to lash out; to hit below the belt and hurt Max in the only way that I know how.

“So when’s there going to be a Maxime Junior?” I casually ask, and I notice the way his body immediately tenses and the way Tanger shoots me a ‘don’t fucking go there’ glare. I know full well that it’s going to be a while before Em’s going to be able to safely carry a baby to term let alone give birth to one; that there’s even the possibility that the operation could be a complete bust and she may never have children at all. And as far as I’m concerned, Max doesn’t deserve to have kids with her; he doesn’t deserve to be the father of her babies.

“Not for a while,” he replies, and reaches across his body to scratch at his right bicep; clearly showing off the tattoo that graces his skin and that wedding band on his finger. I swear the motherfucker flashes that ring on purpose; as a reminder that he is now in possession of the one thing I’d loved more than anything in this world. “At least a couple of years.”

“How come so long?” I inquire. “Your idea or hers?”

“Quel est le probleme avec vous?” Tanger mutters, and digs his elbow into my ribs. “Pourqoui demandez-vous cela? Vous connaisez deja le reponse.”

“Mon audition est tres bien,” Max grumbles. “I’m not deaf, you know. And we’re waiting that long because we want to spend some time together. Some ‘us’ time. Not that it’s really any of your business.”

“Just like what was going on between me and Em was none of yours,” I retort, and Tanger gives an exasperated sigh, tosses the Xbox controller aside and then removes his ball cap from his head and rakes both hands through his hair.

“Elle a fait mon affaire,” Max says, and placing the PSP on his stomach, swigs the remains of his beer and then reaches out to place the empty bottle on the cluttered coffee table. “Elle voulait mon aide,” he adds, and then yawns noisily and runs his hands over his face before returning to his game. “She came to me. Willingly. Quit beating a dead fucking horse.”

“Just ‘cause she came to you didn’t mean you had to stick your nose where it didn’t belong,” I inform him. “Just because she wanted your help doesn’t mean you had to give it to her. You could have turned her away. You could have sent her back to me. You could have told her to go home where she belonged and…”

“Home? To where she belonged?” Max gives a derisive snort. “Where was home, Sid? Where was that? Was it in Mario’s pool house? Was it back in Nova Scotia with your parents? Where you could hide her away from the rest of the world because you didn’t want anyone to see the real her? She never had a home here. She never felt like she belonged in Pittsburgh. I gave her somewhere to go; I gave her a safe place and I was the one person that accepted her. As is. I never forced her to stay with me; I never held a gun to her head to marry me. She did all of that on her own.”

“What you did was come between us,” I argue. “What you did was turn her against me. You made it seem as if I was turning her away and wanting her to be something and someone she wasn’t. You twisted and manipulated her into thinking that everyone but you was against her. She fell in love with you because you brainwashed her into thinking that…”

“I brainwashed her?” he laughs at that. “Are you for fucking real? I brainwashed her and twisted and manipulated her? All I did was love her. That’s all I do now. And just because you can’t accept that for once someone is better than you at something…”

“Better than me?” I snarl. “At what? What the fuck are you better than me at?”

“Well obviously she prefers the way I do things,” a sly smirk crosses his face. “Obviously she’s pretty satisfied and has no complaints. ‘Cause if she did, I’m sure she’d at least consider having you on the side.”

“Max…” Tanger glares at him and shakes his head. “Il suffit de cesser pendant que vous etes en avance. Just shut the fuck up, okay? You’re drunk and Sid’s being a fucking douche. How about the two of you just not talk to each other at all? How about one of you go into one corner and the other go into another and…”

“Why don’t you stay the fuck out of it?” I suggest. “Why don’t you shut your fucking trap, Tanger? This is none of your goddamn business. It doesn’t concern you. At all. So how about you just sit there and keep quiet and spare me your Team Talbot bullshit.”

“How about you all just shut the fuck up?” Flower suggests, as he and Staalsy appear at the side of the couch, a bottle of beer in each of his hands. “Quit pissing on my fucking parade, okay? This is my house and I don’t want to hear this kind of shit, comprendre? Here…” he drops one of the beers in my lap and shoves the other in Max’s face. “Drink and be fucking merry, alright? Enough of this ‘who shit in whose front yard’ and ‘who has the bigger dick talk’.”

“I think it’s quite obvious, in Em’s own words, who wins that competition,” Max smirks, and accepts his beer with an appreciative nod and twists of the cap and tosses it onto the coffee table. “I mean, she just said it for herself, non? Something about how it’s so big my pants can’t hold it in.”

“Same way your head isn’t big enough to contain your ego,” Staalsy retorts.

“Je suis a travers,” Tanger shakes his head in disdain and jumps to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this shit. Middle school called; it wants its drama back. Besides I’ve got to get Peyton home; she hasn’t been feeling well and I’m surprised she’s lasted as long as she has.”

“What’s the hold up with taking a test?” Flower asks. “Just go to the drug store, get one and that’s that. It’s not rocket science.”

“We’re just not ready to find out for sure,” Tanger reasons with a shrug. “I just go along with things, okay? She tells me what she wants to do and I smile and nod. That’s it. She wants to hold off for a bit, that’s what we’re going to do. But right now…right now I just want to get her home. ‘Cause if she’s legit sick or legit pregnant…well I just don’t want to take the risk of things going wrong, you know?”

“I’ll walk you guys out,” Flower offers, and then reaches out and uses the back of his hand to smack Max’s ball cap off of his head. “Voulez-vous venir avec?” he asks. “Vous degriser? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

Max nods in confirmation as he pushes himself up into a sitting position and than issuing a tortured groan as his cell phone springs to life. The damn things been ringing off the hook all fucking night long; call after call has come through that he’s let go to voice mail without even looking at the display, text messages upon text messages that he’s completely ignored.

“Qu est-ce?” Flower inquires, as Max tosses his phone onto the couch and stands up. “What’s going on? Got yourself a stalker or something?”

“Nul important,” he replies. “Just some crazy, clingy bitch that can’t take no for answer. Best to just ignore them, right? Ignorez-les et ils vont s’en aller.”

“Much more easier to just tell them to fuck off,” Flower says. “Beaucoup moins dangereux.”

“Elle est inoffensive,” Max insists, and then chuckles and slaps our goalie lightly across the face and pinches his cheek. “Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over, okay?”

Flower gives a shrug of defeat and then waits for Tanger to bid Staalsy and I farewell before the three Frenchman head across the basement and up the stairs. And I wait until I hear the door swing open and the click shut before I lean over and snag Max’s discarded cell phone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Staalsy inquires, as he plops down heavily beside me. “Mind your own goddamn business, would ya? Stop looking for something that isn’t there. He’s not fucking around on Em. And he’s never going to.”

“I’m just curious,” I say, and then quickly scroll through all of the missed calls and unread text messages. Each and every one has been sent by the same person: model Noot Sears that Max had been banging on and off for the past year before he’d poached Em clear out from under my nose. And apparently Noot is both curious and enraged by ‘the rumour of marriage’ surrounding Max and anxious as hell to see her fuck buddy again. She’s coming to the ‘Burgh in two weeks time on business.

“Sid…” Staalsy sighs. “Just give it up, okay? Just leave Max and Em alone. Leave ‘em alone and go on with your life. They’re in love and they’re happy and that’s that. Fuck…”

“I am not doing anything,” I insist, and then wait for Staalsy to tip his head back against the couch and lay a forearm over his eyes before I hurriedly compose a text message back to Noot. Telling her exactly when the team while be back in town, letting on that I’m -Max- just as anxious to see her again and then giving her my teammate’s new address.

My thumb hovers over the keypad as I both read through the message several times and fight the moral dilemma on whether to either fight fire with fire or turn the other cheek.

Fuck it, I think, and then press the send button.

All is fair in love with war.