Almost a Love Story
© Jesse Goldberg-Strassler


    What you are about to read comes very close to becoming a love story.  Love stories invariably end with two characters happily together.  In this story, our two characters do end up close to one another, but close does not necessarily have any bearing on happiness.
    Now that you have been warned, let’s introduce our two characters.
    We first have Eunice Trowbridge.  She is tall and in fine health and has a face that is the shape of a purple eggplant, though the hue of her skin is more brown than purple.
    Next we have Saxby Cloverleaf.  He is tall and in fine health and has a face that is the shape of a green pepper, though the hue of his skin is more peach than green.
    What does Eunice do?  How considerate of you to ask.  She works at a kiosk in Jurgensen Mall, selling Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser and annoying busy shoppers, none of whom realize how much Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser will improve their complexion in just one day.
    I notice you didn’t ask about Saxby.  Why not?  Aren’t you in the least bit curious?  You’ll find out soon enough, just as soon as Eunice learns for herself.
    After failing to sell two stressed businesswomen and one stressed high schooler on the naturally moisturizing benefits of Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser, a frustrated Eunice finds her gaze drawn to The Locker Room, the athletics store directly across from her kiosk.  A very squat man stands at its entrance, his arms tightly crossed.  The sight of him makes Eunice gawk.  His scrunched-up face is in dire need of a good cleansing, his cabbage-shaped head is far too tiny for his enormously round body, and he is clad in a black football jersey that is far too small for him.  There is a large sign beside the very squat man that reads “25% Off Everything!  20% Off Socks!”  There is one other person in The Locker Room, an overly pierced and glum-looking woman leaning on the counter behind the cash register.  There are no customers in the store.
    The very squat man turns his back to Eunice and calls out something to his overly pierced co-worker.  On the back of his far-too-small jersey is the word “Cloverleaf” written in electric lime green block letters, with the number 4 emblazoned beneath.  Eunice laughs aloud at the sight.
    The very squat man wheels about and sees her staring at him.  A smile curves his thick lips.  “Hey there, mama."
    “What’s that mean?” our Eunice asks him.  “Cloverleaf,” she adds, in case he doesn’t understand her.  “On the back of your jersey.”
    Disappointment drips across his face.  “You don’t know Saxby Cloverleaf, mama?”  He points to the huge black and white poster hanging to his right beneath the neon red “The Locker Room” sign.  It is a close-up photograph of a man with a deep cleft in his chin, light-colored hair curling over determined dark eyes, and an extraordinarily clean complexion.
    “Oh,” speaks Eunice in a hush, struck with rapture.  “Some kind of model, then.”
    “Model?”  The very squat man snorts at her ignorance.  “Quarterback, mama.”
    “Quarterback,” repeats Eunice.  “For a football team?”
    “Mama, you’re as smart as you look,” laughs the very squat man.  His belly jiggles and bounces about, throwing him off balance.  “Yeah, football.  Saxby Cloverleaf, star quarterback of the Caimans.  What do you think about that?”
    Eunice looks deep into the eyes of the poster and her thoughts dance away from her.  “Saxby Cloverleaf,” she repeats to herself.  She likes the taste of the name.  She likes the curl of his hair.  She likes the cleft in his chin.  She likes the determination in his eyes.  She loves his extraordinarily clean complexion.  “When is the Caimans’ next game?”
    “Saxby caught your interest, mama?”  The very squat man gives her a wink.    “Tomorrow.  Gonna win tomorrow, too, just like we always do.  What do you think about that?”
    Eunice likes that very much.
    “Not true.”
    The very squat man glares over his shoulder.  “What was that?”
    The overly pierced woman stirs at the counter.  She shakes her head.  “The Caimans lost last week, Lim.”  Her voice is flat.  “Did you forget?”
    Lim waves it off with one thick hand.  “Miners got lucky.”
    Eunice points to the “Sale” sign.  “Why do you say that everything is 25% off, but socks are 20% off?”
    Lim grins.  “To catch your eye.”
    Eunice’s confusion is clear.
    “It drew your attention, right?  You had to think about it.”  Lim pats the sign proudly.  “Usually people just walk by without paying us any mind.  I’ve seen people do the same to you.”
    Eunice nods.
    “Give them something they didn’t expect to see, they might stop and buy something.  Makes sense, mama?”
    Eunice isn’t so sure, but she nods again anyway.
    “You’ll see,” says Lim with a grin.  He goes to pat the sign again but accidentally knocks it over.  He struggles to bend down and pick it up, but gravity steps in and gives the sign some human company on the floor.
    “It wasn’t luck last week,” the overly pierced woman says to Eunice.  “Saxby Cloverleaf tossed four interceptions and the Caimans lost by 20.  He looked bad.”
    “Don’t listen to Rachelle,” huffs Lim, rolling back to his feet, his face red from embarrassment and the exertion of standing up.  “Miners got lucky.”  He points at Eunice with a stumpy index finger.  “You watch, mama.  Saxby Cloverleaf and the Caimans are going to crush Saint Loo tomorrow.  You watch.”

    The next day is a Sunday.
    Eunice sleeps well, rises early, dresses her best, and drives with her mother to church.  They sit in the third row on the left, careful to avoid gossiping and gawking too much as the congregation filters in around them.  Eunice’s posture is upright and perfect as she harmonizes softly with the choir and listens raptly to the pastor’s sermon against valuing outward beauty over inward beauty.
    After the service, she spends a nice, quiet afternoon applying Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser to her face, doing her laundry, and writing in her journal.  It is only after she finishes her dinner that she remembers the extraordinarily clean complexion of Saxby Cloverleaf.
    She hopes he performed well against Saint Loo.

    Lim greets her the next day from the threshold of The Locker Room.  He is wearing both an electric lime green Caimans jersey stretched tight on his rolling torso and a wide smile on his scrunched-up face.  “What’d I tell you, mama?  Smoked ‘em!”
    At the counter, Rachelle barely lifts her gaze in Eunice’s direction.  “It was better than last week,” she concedes.
    “Four touchdowns!” howls Lim, pounding the number 4 on his chest.  “348 yards passing!  Beat ‘em 38-10!  Didn’t you watch?”
    Eunice shakes her head, flushed with shame.
    Saxby Cloverleaf’s shining, clean, handsome face smiles down on her from the black and white poster, encouraging her to lift her head high.  She does.
    “Saint Loo’s the worst team in the league,” mumbles Rachelle, playing with her tongue stud.
    “What’s the Caimans’ record now?” ventures Eunice, her eyes glued to Saxby Cloverleaf’s clear forehead.
    “3-1,” says Lim with great pride.  “Tops in the division.”  He shifts his weight backward into The Locker Room and plucks a soft electric lime green football from a bin.  “You should’ve seen it, mama.  Saxby Cloverleaf gunning touchdowns left and right -- like this!”  With great effort, Lim bends his knees and reaches forward, as if accepting the snap from center.  “Hut HUT!” he shouts and unsteadily backs up several steps with the ball gripped tightly in both hands.  He scans the mall in exaggerated fashion, then his eyes fix upon Eunice and widen.  His left arm whips toward her, ballooning the ball at her kiosk.
    Eunice feels the dark gaze of Saxby Cloverleaf upon her.  She reaches out for the wobbling football, closing her eyes as she does so.  It smacks into her palms and her fingers close quickly, tightly.
    “Touchdown, Caimans!” cries out Lim.
    Her eyes slowly open.  She sees first the blurry form of the electric lime green football in her outstretched arms, and then, above it, the proud face of Saxby Cloverleaf.
    Eunice blushes.
    In front of The Locker Room, the very squat Lim dances.  His knees shimmy, his belly jiggles, and his arms wave wildly above his head.
    “You’re mentally ill, Lim,” pronounces Rachelle.  She pauses.  “Not a bad catch, though.”
    “Thank you,” says Eunice.  She beams at all three of them, Rachelle, Lim, and Saxby Cloverleaf, and she lightly underhands the football back to Lim.
    “Hey.”  Lim pounds the football from one hand into the other.  “Saxby threw four touchdown passes yesterday, mama.  You’re not done yet.”  His eyes glint.  “Go long.”
    Eunice blinks.  “Long?”
    Lim waves his hand in the direction of the food court.  “Long, mama.  Go long.”  He bends over again to take the snap from center.
    Eunice uncertainly takes several steps toward the food court.
    “Longer!”
    Rachelle shakes her head.  “That woman’s wearing high heels, Lim.  You’re mentally ill.”
    Eunice almost stumbles as she nears the food court.  Still, conscious that Saxby Cloverleaf’s black and white face is watching her, she presses on, pushing her way past a pair of suit-wearing old men.  From behind her she faintly hears Lim shout, “Now!”  She turns.  The football crashes off of the bald head of one of the suit-wearing old men and pops up into the air, floating perfectly into the hands of a very embarrassed Eunice.
    “Touchdown, Caimans!” exults Lim.
    “Hey,” comments an impressed Rachelle, “that was just like Cloverleaf’s second touchdown yesterday, the one to Ventura.  Sweet.”
    Eunice cannot bear to meet the angry eyes of the old men.  Their mutters chase her all the way back to The Locker Room.  There she places the football into Lim’s hands.  “No more,” she says, and she goes to return to her kiosk.
    “Saxby Cloverleaf would have been proud of that catch, mama,” says Lim to Eunice’s back.
    Eunice stops.
    “He threw four touchdown passes yesterday,” Lim reminds her.  “We still have two to go.”
    Eunice turns, slowly.  “I’m not going long.”
    Lim shows off his white teeth.  “Hut HUT!”
    More in self defense than anything else, she corrals the football as it smacks into her right shoulder.
    Rachelle approves.  “That was the touchdown pass to Marsico.  Pretty good.”  She leans forward with interest.  “How’re you going to pull off the one to Santovenia, Lim?”
    Eunice hears the words, but they do not register with her.  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a group of young woman curiously nearing her kiosk.  It is clear that Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser has caught their interest.  Eunice flips the football back to Lim and steps out in front of the group of young women wearing her most engaging smile.  “Hello,” she begins pleasantly, holding out a small tube of moisturizer toward the young woman in the lead, a slim brunette.  “May I--”
    Lim’s voice cuts her off.  “Hut HUT!”
    The young women look around quizzically.
    The soft electric lime green football soars over the kiosk.  Instinctively Eunice reaches out and plucks it out of the air with her left hand.
    Rachelle loses her composure.  “That was it!  That was Santovenia!”
    Lim celebrates with his touchdown dance.
    Eunice tosses the football back over the kiosk and turns her attention back to the brunette, her smile unmoved.  “May I show you how the Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser works to moisturize and cleanse your skin, improving your complexion in just one day?”
    “Sure,” says the brunette breathlessly.  Her friends crowd around.
    Eunice feels Saxby Cloverleaf’s clean, handsome, black and white face smiling at her back, and she stands even taller in her heels while demonstrating the remarkable moisturizing and cleansing properties of Natural Dead Sea Salts.  She sells two tubes to each of the young women.
    As they leave her kiosk, Lim waves for their attention.  He points to the “Sale” sign.  They giggle to one another, shrug, and walk into The Locker Room.
    Eunice, meanwhile, is busy demonstrating the Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser for an interested businessman who saw her Santovenia-esque catch and came over to see for himself what she was selling.  He purchases two tubes of moisturizer and two tubes of cleanser, a set for himself and a set for his wife.  As he is paying, he asks her about the catch.
    “There’s no catch,” Eunice says, wide-eyed.  “It really does moisturize and cleanse your face.  Look at me.”
    He does, appreciatively.  Then he chuckles.  “I mean that snag of the lime-green football earlier.  That was some catch on your part.  Looked just like Santovenia’s touchdown catch yesterday.”
    Eunice demurely declines the praise.
    “I threw it,” Lim interjects immodestly.
    “She caught one like Ventura, too,” Rachelle pipes up from inside The Locker Room.
    The businessman’s eyebrows fly to the top of his receding hairline.  “Ventura?  What do you mean, like Ventura?  It bounced?”
    “Right off an old man’s head,” brags Lim.  “Went right to her.”
    “How about Marsico?” pursues the businessman.
    Lim puffs out his already massive chest.  “Burned it right against her shoulder and she still caught it.”
    “Did she really?”  The businessman throws down his credit card.  “Give me another two tubes.”
    Eunice does just that.
    If she hopes that the back-to-back successes would set a tone for the day, however, she is sadly disappointed.  The rest of the morning and afternoon is filled with cold shoulders from passing shoppers.
    Not so for the days afterward.
    By Thursday it becomes evident that word about the remarkable cleansing properties of Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser has spread rapidly amongst young women.  Typical is a rather large unnatural blond who stampedes up to Eunice on Wednesday afternoon, boyfriend hurrying along behind her.  She requests, nay, orders, a demonstration of the moisturizer and is delighted to see the results produced in just 30 seconds of application.  “Just like Katie said!” she squeals, and purchases four tubes with her boyfriend’s credit card.
    In the midst of the young women flocking to the kiosk on Thursday, there is also a superbly-dressed businessman with neatly trimmed salt and pepper sideburns.  “I hear this is some fine moisturizer and cleanser you have here,” he says.  “I also hear you caught a pass like Santovenia’s touchdown from Sunday.”
    Lim’s voice rings out.  “I threw it!”
    Eunice smiles in spite of herself.
    The businessman ignores Lim’s interruption.  “I’ll take a tube of moisturizer and a tube of cleanser, thank you,” he says.  He pays with an electric lime green Caimans credit card.
    Eunice feels impulsive.  “What do you think of Saxby Cloverleaf?”
    “Best in the league,” opines the businessman without hesitation.
    Eunice nods happily toward Saxby Cloverleaf’s black and white face, which looks quite flattered by the praise.
    Behind the buying power of the young women and their significant others’ credit cards, Eunice sells more tubes of moisturizers and cleansers over the course of the week than she had sold the previous two weeks combined.
    Across the way at The Locker Room, Rachelle is busier than usual.  Lim’s “Sale” sign is doing its part.  The more customers for Eunice, Lim observes, the more customers for The Locker Room.

    The following Monday, Lim wears a white Caimans #4 jersey and a jubilant expression.  “Those Sphinxes thought they were so tough!  Ha!”
    “What was the score?” asks Eunice.  She had forgotten to watch the game again.
    “17-16, mama.  Two more touchdowns for Saxby Cloverleaf.”
    “And two more interceptions,” mutters Rachelle.
    Eunice waits for him to reach for the soft electric lime green football.  He does not.  She is perturbed.  “Where’s the football?”
    His eyes flicker up to her.  “What was that?”
    “The football,” she says.  “Aren’t you going to throw me the football twice for Saxby Cloverleaf’s touchdown passes?”
    He waves her off.  “I’m busy, mama.”
    “Oh.”  She is disappointed, which surprises her.  Was she looking forward to Lim throwing her the football that much?  Or was it that she enjoyed having her own personal way to celebrate each touchdown pass thrown by the great Saxby Cloverleaf?
    At her crestfallen expression, Lim seems to give in.  He picks up the soft electric lime green football.  He bends over and winks at her.  “Hut HUT!”
    Eunice brightens immediately.  She holds out her arms.
    He gently underhands the football to her, nice and easy.
    She squeezes it in to her chest.  “Touchdown, Caimans,” she says with a grin, and returns the football to him.
    He returns her grin, then places the football back in its bin.
    “Only one?  There were two touchdown passes yesterday, weren’t there?”
    Lim shrugs.  “Maybe later, mama.”
    It is a slow morning, but business picks up at Eunice’s kiosk around lunch time as teenagers start filtering in to the mall.
    The initial wave is led by a short girl with braces, who declares to Eunice that she’s been waiting all weekend to try out the moisturizer and cleanser for herself.  Eunice offers to demonstrate them for her, and the short girl’s mood turns brusque.  “No need.  I’ll take two tubes of each.”  She thrusts out a credit card.
    An eager line forms behind the short girl.  They also refuse the offer of a demonstration.
    “Why?” asks an athletic auburn-haired girl with a bag of clothes underneath one arm.  “We already know it works.”
    Eunice shrugs and goes back to dutifully ringing up each purchase.
    After taking care of five customers, Eunice hears an ear-splitting “Go long!”
    She freezes.
    “Hut HUT!”
    “Excuse me,” Eunice says politely to the young couple in front of her.  “I’ll be right with you.”  She does not wait for their response.  Teetering on her high heels, she takes off for the food court.  Shoppers both young and old scatter from her path.  She looks back over her shoulder and sees that the electric lime green football has already been released into the air.  It is a shorter pass than Eunice was expecting and she nearly breaks one of her heels skidding to a stop.  She spins around and reaches out for the football, closing her fingers around its softness as inertia tugs her body backward toward the food court.  She sits down hard on the mall floor, falls back with the momentum, and does a perfect back somersault that leaves her breathlessly on her knees, the football still held tightly in her right hand.
    “Touchdown, Cai--” Lim bellows before his voice is drowned out by the roar of the food court, all manner of shoppers standing and cheering and whooping and high-fiving and fist-pumping.  A pair of strong hands help her to her feet and she turns to see that it is the two businessmen who came to her kiosk the previous week, a host of other suited shoppers at their back.
    “That catch,” says the first businessman, the one with the receding hairline, “was something to behold.”
    “Looked just like Cloverleaf’s touchdown pass to Geathers yesterday,” says the second businessman, the one with the neatly trimmed salt and pepper sideburns.
    There is a rousing hum of agreement.
    The second businessman bends toward her.  “Are you all right?  You took quite a tumble, you know.”
    A flustered Eunice pulls away.  She looks around and sees that all eyes are upon her.  “I’m fine,” she says, backing away as she does so.
    The young couple is still obediently waiting for her at the kiosk.  First, though, Eunice deposits the soft electric lime green football in the calloused palms of Lim.
    “Nice catch,” offers Rachelle.  There are no customers in The Locker Room to occupy her attention.  “You okay?”
    Eunice ignores her.  She stares daggers at Lim.  “What was that?  I’m in the middle of helping customers and you decide that’s the right time to throw the second touchdown pass?”
    His eyes sparkle.  He points at the growing crowd at her kiosk. 
    “Are you hurt?” asks Rachelle again.
    The note of concern in her voice rings sincere, but the sentiment still strikes the wrong chord with Eunice.  “Yes,” she says icily.  Yes, she’s hurt.  She aches from newly-formed bruises, particularly her backside.  She aches, too, from embarrassment.  What possesses her to go running through a mall after a football?  And then, to fall in front of every person in the mall?  She looks desperately at the face of Saxby Cloverleaf and finds exactly the sympathy she needs.  She steps gingerly back to her kiosk.
    It takes her over an hour to work her way through the largest crush of prospective customers, most of whom are only there purchasing tubes of moisturizer and cleanser in order to have an excuse to check on her health and issue her praise for her catch.
    “But why’d you do it?” inquires a college-age guy with black framed glasses and hair tied back in dreadlocks.
    His girlfriend elbows him and hisses, “It’s what she does!  Some guy told me every week she makes catches just like the Caimans!”
    The guy’s mouth opens wide.  “That was the Geathers touchdown from yesterday, wasn’t it?  That’s crazy!”  He gives Eunice an enormous hug and receives another elbow from his girlfriend.
    The positive attention eases Eunice’s embarrassment at the same time that she feels her bruises healing.  Her embarrassment is eased even more by the realization, several hours in, that she is no longer tending to the wishes of customers who saw her catch at the food court and yet she is still receiving consistent business.  It is enough to make her glance several times back at the visage of Saxby Cloverleaf just to assure him that she is not ignoring him.  She laughs at this.  Ignoring him?  Why, it was as if she considered the poster image to be as real as Saxby Cloverleaf himself.  The black and white face of Saxby Cloverleaf laughs with her.  How ridiculous!
    She turns her attention back to her customers and resumes making money for the rest of the day... and the rest of the week, too.   

    Eunice remembers on Sunday to turn on the Caimans game.  She enters into the action midway through the third quarter.
    The Caimans trail, 13-3.
    She is stunned.
    As she watches, the great Saxby Cloverleaf drops back to pass and is mobbed by two large men wearing enemy colors.  He limps to the sideline, replaced by the punting unit.  The television cameras attempt to capture a close-up of Cloverleaf, but a massive member of the offensive line stands in the way.
    The situation does not improve for the Caimans.  They lose, 23-3.
    Lim reads her perfectly the next day.  “You saw the game, didn’t you, mama?”
    Eunice nods sadly.
    “It’s just one loss,” says Lim.  “It happens.”
    A crowd forms at Eunice’s kiosk around lunch time, filled with interested customers all wondering if she was going to catch a touchdown pass that day.  But since there had been no Saxby Cloverleaf touchdown passes in the game, there are no celebratory touchdown passes from Lim to Eunice.
    “You mean I have to live with disappointment two days in a row?” jokes the businessman with the neatly trimmed salt and pepper sideburns.
    “Sorry.”  She feels awful, much the same way she expects that Saxby Cloverleaf feels the day after a loss.
    “Shake it off,” says the businessman with the receding hairline.  “We’re still in first place, that’s the important thing.  We’ll be back to see you catching touchdown passes next week.”
    Her spirits rise.  “Next week?”
    “When we kill the Crawdads!” shouts a teenager near the back, evoking a healthy roar from all Caimans fans within earshot.
    She is heartened by this reaction as well as by the steady stream of young customers dropping by to pick up moisturizer and cleanser.

    The following Sunday, Eunice joins the action to find the Caimans trailing the Crawdads 14-9 in a taut duel.  With six minutes remaining in the game, Caimans running back Marco Marsico bulls his way into the end zone for the go-ahead score.  While an overjoyed Saxby Cloverleaf dances around the field, an overjoyed Eunice dances around her living room.  She imagines Lim doing his touchdown dance beside her and is overcome with mirth.
    But it is not to be.  The Caimans are unable to convert a two-point conversion attempt and the Crawdads respond with a game-winning field goal at the gun.  Final score:  Crawdads 17, Caimans 15.
    Eunice is heartbroken.  She watches Saxby Cloverleaf slump off the field and she feels his anguish and frustration.
    There is similar anguish and frustration to be found at the mall the next day, especially in the face of Lim.  Rachelle, conversely, stares dourly down at the counter.
    “It’s just one loss, right?” Eunice asks Lim.  “It happens.”
    “You’re right,” says Lim slowly.  “It happens.”  The “Sale” sign at his side has been changed to read “30% Off Everything!  33% Off Shirts That Don’t Fit You!”
    The shoppers passing Eunice’s kiosk carry around the same sour mood.  She observes more than a few familiar shoppers from weeks past and says hello to them.  They smile back at her and walk a little taller.  Her customer base is smaller than it was the previous week, but she still makes a fine profit from Monday through Saturday.
    Lim sends a grin her way as he and Rachelle lock up The Locker Room and Eunice closes up her kiosk on Saturday night.  “These were good days for you, mama.”
    “Thank you,” says Eunice awkwardly.  It has not escaped her attention that The Locker Room has not seen the same business it experienced in the previous weeks.

    In their eighth game of the season the Caimans are routed at home by Kingston, 35-0.  Saxby Cloverleaf is sacked five times, throws four interceptions, fumbles twice, and is booed mercilessly throughout, bringing Eunice close to tears.
    She is surprised to see Lim and Rachelle holding their heads high the next day.
    Rachelle, rarely the ray of sunshine, speaks up.  “They have a bye week next Sunday, no game.”
    “No game?”  Eunice shakes her head with bewilderment.  “Isn’t that bad?”
    “Bye weeks are good,” says Lim.  “Everyone gets a chance to rest.  The Caimans need to get away from football for a week.”  He indicates the fuming Caimans fans/shoppers around them.  “Everyone needs to get away from football sometimes.”
    Rachelle and Lim are borne out.  An atmosphere of frustration and anger amongst shoppers dissipates by Saturday.  When Monday rolls around, Eunice feels energized and optimistic.  She sees the same optimism in the face of Saxby Cloverleaf’s poster.  The Caimans are 4-4, not great but not awful.  New customers have heard of the benefits of Natural Dead Sea Salts Facial Moisturizer and Cleanser and wish to see the results for themselves.  Past defeats and miseries have been forgotten.
    “I like bye weeks,” Eunice says to Lim and Rachelle during a relaxed moment at her kiosk.
    Their smiles in response are kind but tight-lipped.  The Locker Room has seen barely thirty customers all week.

    Eunice makes sure that she is in front of her television for the very start of the Caimans’ next game.  It is against the “lucky” Miners, who handed the Caimans their first loss of the year. 
    There is a new confidence on the faces of Saxby Cloverleaf and his teammates.  The star quarterback comes out looking sharp, moving the ball easily downfield with short, crisp passes.  A pair of Marco Marsico touchdown runs give the Caimans a 17-7 lead at halftime.
    The Miners respond in the third quarter with a pair of touchdowns, lifting them to a 21-17 advantage.
    Saxby Cloverleaf is undaunted.  At the start of the fourth quarter, the Caimans’ signal-caller lofts a high spiral toward the corner of the end zone, perfectly placed into the waiting hands of Allen Santovenia.  Eunice jumps up with excitement, spilling her tea, as the television announcer shouts “Touchdown, Caimans!” just like Lim.
    They show an instant reply of the touchdown.  Eunice watches intently, knowing she’ll be expected to replicate the play the next day.  There’s Allen Santovenia, running out his pass pattern.  There’s the ball, dropped in so beautifully by Saxby Cloverleaf that she feels vicariously proud.  And then -- her jaw drops.  Santovenia had not caught it cleanly, as she had supposed.  In fact, he had juggled the ball at first and then had to reach down and grab it before the ball could touch the turf.  She pales.
    The Miners trail for only 13 seconds.  That’s how long it takes for the enemy squad to return the ensuing kickoff for a touchdown.  Miners 28, Caimans 24.
    The contest nears its denouement.
    Saxby Cloverleaf gathers his troops for one last drive, Eunice hanging on the edge of her seat.  A nice pass to Michael Ventura brings the Caimans to midfield.  A minute left.  Marco Marsico takes a short toss and drags Miners out of bounds inside the 30-yard line.  46 seconds left.  Eunice’s heart pounds.  Allen Santovenia gets open deep, but Saxby Cloverleaf overthrows him.  38 seconds left.  Another incompletion.  31 seconds left.  The Miners blitz, leaving Clayton Geathers all alone over the middle.  Saxby Cloverleaf hits him with a perfect pass and Geathers is tackled just shy of the goal line.  15 seconds left.
    Saxby Cloverleaf claps his hands together as the Caimans break the huddle.  He can feel it.  Eunice claps her hands together, too.  She can feel it.  The Miners choose not to blitz, giving Saxby Cloverleaf all the time he needs.  He and Eunice look at Allen Santovenia.  Covered.  They look at Marco Marsico.  Covered.  How about Michael Ventura?  Open.  Wide open.  Eunice stands.  “Throw it to Ventura!” she shouts.  Saxby Cloverleaf lets the ball go.  A Miners lineman gets his hand up and knocks the ball up in the air.  Everyone dives for it.  Eunice’s breath catches.  The referees converge and make their ruling.  Miners ball.
    Eunice turns off the television and cries.

    There is no touchdown pass from Lim to Eunice on Monday in honor of Saxby Cloverleaf’s touchdown pass to Allen Santovenia.  There can’t be.  The Caimans’ fanbase is in a deep depression.  Shoppers pass by Eunice’s kiosk with their eyes cast downward.  No one sees Lim’s “Sale” sign, now reading “40% Off Everything!”
    The lack of humor in the sign alerts Eunice to The Locker Room’s struggles.  Rarely does she see more than two customers in The Locker Room at the same time.  She steals a glance at the store in between her usual middle school, high school, and college patrons with faces in need of moisturizing and cleansing.  Lim stands beside the “Sale” sign, his arms crossed across a fraying black number 20 Caimans jersey.  Marco Marsico, thinks Eunice.  She has never seen him wear a number besides Saxby Cloverleaf’s 4 before.  Inside, Rachelle sits as still as a statue behind the counter.  The two of them make a dismal tableau.
    Eunice looks at the black and white Saxby Cloverleaf poster.  A corner has come undone.  It hangs down over the left side of his face.
    At closing time on Saturday, Eunice walks out to the nearly empty parking lot with  Lim and Rachelle.  “Who do the Caimans play tomorrow?” she asks.
    “Saint Loo again,” says Lim.  His voice is quiet.  Eunice wishes he had added a ‘mama’ at the end of his answer.
    “I’ll see you two on Monday,” she says.
    “Yeah,” murmurs Rachelle.  She fiddles with the four dangling earrings in her left ear.  Their tinny clinking sounds like broken wind chimes.
    “Good night,” says Lim.
    “Good night,” says Eunice, and she parts their company feeling that there was more that she should have said.

    Eunice does not watch the Caimans’ game on Sunday.  Late Saturday night, she decides that she has been a bad luck charm for Saxby Cloverleaf.  After all, the Caimans have lost every game that she has watched.
    Instead, she writes in her journal.  She cleans her apartment.  She washes the dishes by hand.  She does her laundry.  She goes shopping.
    Then evening comes and she cooks a simple dinner for herself, reads several chapters of a good book, and goes to bed.   
    When she arrives at her kiosk on Monday, a call of “Hey, mama!” from Lim welcomes her.  He stands behind the counter at The Locker Room wearing a tiny red basketball jersey that appears to have said “Bandits” across the front at one time, though his girth has stretched the word beyond comprehension.  In front of The Locker Room, there is a sign that reads “60% Off Everything!”
    She waves to him.  “Where’s Rachelle?”
    “Not here,” he says.
    “It’s only you?”
    “Only me.”
    “The whole day?”
    “The whole day.”
    Eunice looks at the large area encompassed by The Locker Room and considers this with a touch of concern.  “Is the owner okay with this?”
    “Yes.”  Lim nods.  “The owner is okay with this.”
    She does not think to ask the question until it is near the very end of the day, a very quiet day for both of them.  “Who won the Caimans game, Lim?”
    “Saint Loo,” he says.
    She waits.  When he says nothing more, she asks, “What was the score?”
    “34-7, mama.  34-7.”
    They are the last words Eunice and Lim speak to one another all week.

    The loss to Saint Loo does produce one positive result.  Eunice is convinced that she is not in fact a bad luck charm.  She returns from church on Sunday ready for the Caimans/Jackals game.  Her jaw is set firm.  All throughout the church service, she heard grumbles about the Caimans, particularly about Saxby Cloverleaf.  It is not the first time she has heard ill words about the quarterback.  Numerous times during the week, shoppers passed by her kiosk complaining about Cloverleaf’s poor play and hoping the Caimans would bench him soon.  Both at the mall and at church, Eunice bristled but said nothing.
    She turns on the television to see Saxby Cloverleaf’s determined eyes staring at her through the bars of his helmet.  It sends a thrill up her back.
    The Caimans receive the ball first, starting at their own 27 yard line.  Number 4 in black and electric lime green jogs confidently onto the sun-washed field.
    Eunice applauds.
    Saxby Cloverleaf’s first pass is intercepted and returned for a touchdown.  Eunice’s hopeful expression freezes on her face.  She feels as though ice water has just been poured over her, beautiful church clothes and all.  Resounding boos cascade down from the stands, the awful sound growing louder and louder until Eunice cannot take it anymore and mutes the volume on her television.
    The Jackals kick off again.  The Caimans return the ball to their own 27 again.  Saxby Cloverleaf takes the field again.  A hand-off to Marco Marsico yields three yards.  A second hand-off to Marco Marsico yields nothing.
    Eunice closes her eyes tightly and holds her breath, trying to will success upon Saxby Cloverleaf and the Caimans.
    Third down.
    Saxby Cloverleaf crouches down to take the snap.  Just like Lim, thinks Eunice with a fleeting smile.  She unmutes the television so she can hear him shout “Hut HUT!”  He does!  Eunice’s smile grows wider.  He drops back to pass.  Stands there.  Waits.  Someone’s going long, Eunice thinks excitedly.  She imagines herself racing for the food court on her high heels.  He draws his throwing hand back.  She rises to her feet.
    And then Saxby Cloverleaf, Caimans star quarterback, disappears underneath a pair of Jackals linebackers.
    The noise of the crowd drowns out Eunice Trowbridge’s wail.
    There is a fumble on the play, recovered by the Caimans.  It’s inconsequential.  Of greater consequence is the fact that a stretcher is required to take Saxby Cloverleaf off the field.

    The Caimans finish the season with a 6-10 record, a disappointing result after such a promising start.  Eunice does not know the Caimans’ final record.  She stops watching Caimans games after the contest with the Jackals.
    The day after the regular season ends, Eunice Trowbridge enters the mall to find a dark empty area where once was The Locker Room.
    Hanging in the darkened window remains one last reminder of The Locker Room’s existence.  It is a black and white poster depicting a man with a deep cleft in his chin, light-colored hair curling over determined dark eyes, and an extraordinarily clean complexion.  A corner has come undone and hangs down over the left side of the man’s face.
    “I wonder,” says Eunice to herself, as she puts a tube of moisturizer and a tube of cleanser into a bag for a customer, “if he really looks like that.”
    “No,” says the customer.  There is a plain baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, though it does not hide the acne on his cheeks and chin.  “It’s airbrushed.”
    Eunice stares at the poster bitterly.  “It would be airbrushed.”
    “You’re very pretty,” says the customer hopefully.
    She ignores him.
    So the customer, a tall man with a face the shape of a green pepper, though the hue of his skin is more peach than green, pays for his moisturizer and cleanser, then hobbles away on his crutches, while Eunice’s thoughts turn to strange “Sale” signs and touchdown dances and soft electric lime green footballs and excessive piercings and Caimans jerseys that are far too small.


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