“Love-15,” Rosenfarb calls out, proceeding to serve to the ad side.
Again to the backhand, Overman drills it back to Rosenfarb’s feet, leaving him helpless.
“Love-30,” says Rosenfarb, starting to get annoyed.
He double faults and it’s Love-40. The window man serves and volleys, Overman easily lobs it over his head and wins the game.
And on it goes. Overman scores every point and wins 6-0, 6-0. Rosenfarb insists on a third set, and once again loses every point. Three golden sets, as they are known, but rarely experienced in the world of tennis. Rosenfarb looks like he’s about to kill himself. An exhausted Overman manages to spit out a few words. “Imagine what the score would’ve been if I’d stretched.” Adding insult to injury wasn’t necessary: it just felt so good.
“I’ve never lost every point in a match,” Rosenfarb sputters in disbelief.
Even though the outcome was just desserts for this preening diva, the man had become so unraveled that Overman couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s a reason this happened. It has nothing to do with you.”
Rosenfarb doesn’t know what to make of this. Is Overman saying he actually anticipated this lopsided victory? That overnight, he was somehow transformed from plodding, unathletic schlub to grand slam level player?
“This isn’t about tennis,” Overman says, trying to console him.
“Stop patronizing me, Ira,” Rosenfarb snorts.
“I’m not. Something has happened to me.”
“You’re making it worse. Just shut up.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you at Jerry’s, the one across from Cedar’s.
Jerry’s was the deli, Cedar’s Sinai the hospital, both overpriced as far as Overman was concerned. Thank God he didn’t have any more children being born and only had to deal with fifteen-dollar pastrami sandwiches. Rosenfarb ate light anyway, always pretending to be on some ludicrous diet Rita heard about in her Pilates class.
Rosenfarb is already seated when Overman arrives. His face is ashen, a shocking contrast to the forced conviviality that had always been Rosenfarb’s stock-in-trade.
“You all right?” Overman asks.
The waitress, a young, lip-plumped Kim Basinger lookalike, comes over to take their order.
“No, I’m not all right, you prick,” Rosenfarb snaps. “What the fuck happened out there?”
The waitress offers to come back in a few minutes but Rosenfarb says he needs food and brusquely asks for the triple-decker corned beef and Swiss.
$18.75, Overman silently notes to himself. “I’ll have the blintzes.” He smiles at the waitress, patting his paunch. “Just what I need, huh?”
She scurries away, convinced that Rosenfarb is some kind of loose cannon.
“What the fuck, Ira? You’re too cheap to buy performance-enhancing drugs. I don’t get it.”
“I’m not on drugs,” Overman replies. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t fully understand it myself.”
“Do you know what my record is against you? 232-1.” Only Rosenfarb could hold on to a stat like this. “That’s matches. Maybe you’ve taken 10 sets off me since we’ve known each other.”
Overman explains that this unlikely result is part of something bigger. “I’m telling you, Jake. There’s been a change. I suddenly have this new focus, this new power, if you will.”
“You? Power?” Rosenfarb scoffs. “Ira, you’ve been fired from practically every job you’ve ever had, your wife left you, your kids barely speak to you and you live in a place where plants grow out of the carpet. What kind of power could you have?”
“I won every point tonight, Jake.”
“I had a hard day at work. Don’t make it into more than it was.”
“Ever since my Lasik surgery—”
“Which I believe you had done at the 99 Cents Store,” Rosenfarb interrupts.
“— I’m able to make things happen. I think about something, I feel this rush through my whole body that saps me of all my energy, but then the thing I want to happen, happens.” Overman recounts his bonding with Maricela, followed by the parting of the 101 south on his drive home.
Rosenfarb finds all of it absurd, as implausible as Rita having sex just because she feels like it. “So what are you telling me? You had bargain basement eye surgery and now you have special powers?”
“I just feel like a different person.”
“From car salesman to magician,” Rosenfarb laughs. “Hey, you’ve got all this power, maybe you’re a superhero. Why take the freeway home when you could fly? You know, I’ve always suspected you were from another planet.”
What a supreme dick, Overman thinks, now glad he slaughtered the guy on the tennis court. He wished there were a way to shut this asshole up once and for all. An idea suddenly occurs to him. It would have seemed crazy yesterday, it might be crazy now, but it was worth a shot.
“Do you think I could get a date with our waitress?” Overman asks.
Rosenfarb sees the curvaceous Ersatz Kim Basinger approaching, bearing corned beef and blintzes.
“In what universe do you think that could be an option, Overman?”
Overman doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, choosing instead to focus on Kim as she rests the plates in front of them.
“Will there be anything else?” she asks.
“Spicy mustard for me. Anything for you?” Rosenfarb snickers at Overman.
“Nothing, thanks, it looks great,” Overman says, looking deep into her eyes. “Do we know each other from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” Kim smiles back. She starts off then quickly turns back. “You know there is something about you that seems familiar...”
“Let me guess. He looks like your old fart Uncle Larry,” Jake chortles, thrilled to have added his ever-extraneous two cents.
“No, not really,” Kim replies, moving away to take another order.
Rosenfarb gives Overman a knowing, “you stupid shit” nod. “Ira, I think maybe you need to see a new therapist. Rita’s been very happy with hers.”
And a lot of good that’s done her. Was it the therapist who came up with the whole sperm swallowing for diamonds arrangement, Overman wonders?
Kim returns to the table wielding a brand new squeeze bottle of spicy mustard. “Here you go, sir,” she says, placing it in front of Rosenfarb. She then looks at Overman and produces a hand-written note. “My phone number. In case you ever feel like getting together.” Kim smiles seductively at Overman and heads back toward the kitchen.
Rosenfarb is convinced that Overman and Kim pre-arranged this as a practical joke.
“When have I ever been that clever?” Overman asks, a valid point on any given day.
But Rosenfarb cannot deal with what he has witnessed with his own eyes and ears throughout this evening. It is as if everything he has gleaned over a lifetime has been rendered false in one fell swoop. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to Overman, but we’ll settle this on the court next week.” He stands up and motions toward Kim, hoisting the gargantuan corned beef triple-decker in the air. “I’ll take this to go.”
Having