Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth

before he had celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Marco offered to help her haul her stuff to Pittsburgh, but she told him not to be ridiculous. The company would pay for a professional mover. When the lease on her apartment ran out, she went north to stay with some college friends. Over the weekend, the moving van came and hauled her things away. Marco was left in Miami without a place to stay.
    He had been having financial problems since March, when he and ten other employees went through what the Miami Herald called a “schedule adjustment.” It meant that they were laid off, maybe fired, but definitely collecting unemployment. Marco had been one of the sports photographers. He covered Class A minor high school sports—soccer, tennis, fencing, swimming meets. He also did local stories—third-generation coaches in the Upper Keys, Miami rugby players who practiced by dragging tractor tires on the beach. He had tried to get the job as the Miami Heat photographer, but the paper hired a woman from the Detroit Free Press who had covered the Pistons’ two NBA championship seasons. The sports editor promised Marco that he was first in line for the Florida Marlins job when the Herald started its “schedule adjustments.”
    The same week as the schedule adjustments, his car was stolen from the Taurus Restaurant parking lot. It was during a Friday afternoon happy hour, with at least forty people on the outdoor patio. Marco found it hard to believe that no one had seen anything. The valet, a tall, lanky kid with a missing front tooth, claimed to have been helping the busboys carry garbage out to the dumpsters when the thieves jumped the fence, smashed the window, and hot-wired Marco’s car.
    Marco filed a report, and the police insisted on coming out to see the spot where the car had been. There was nothing there, just the empty parking space, but the policeman knelt and inspected the blacktop as if looking for clues.
    â€œDade County gravel.” The policeman scooped up some of the broken glass and held it up for Marco’s inspection. He seemed particularly pleased by the tiny glass slivers.
    â€œAny chance I’ll get the car back?” Marco asked.
    â€œAbout a zillion to one.” The cop shone his flashlight into the dark bushes. There was a pile of empty beer bottles and some Burger King wrappers. He made notes on a yellow pad of paper that Marco was sure he tossed in the garbage dumpsters before driving away.
    â€œYour car is probably sleeping in Puerto Rico as we speak,” the policeman told Marco. “Tomorrow morning, those car parts will be all over the country.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Marco asked, though he had worked at the newspaper long enough to know what happened to stolen cars in Miami.
    â€œPositive,” the guy said and then told Marco not to worry. “That’s why we pay through the nose for insurance.”
    Marco had meant to reinstate his policy ever since it had run out last November, but the first few times he called the company he was put on hold. Not crazy about Muzak, he hung up and tried again, only to get a busy signal. Then it was Christmas break, then New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, a presidential long weekend. Then he lost his job.
    Marco liked living with Marybeth and Doug. They were only the second tenants to occupy their place, and every room smelled of paint and new carpeting. Marco’s bedroom looked out on the courtyard and the grove of ficus trees that blocked the noise of traffic. But with no car and Doug at work all day, Marco got bored. He missed his old girlfriend, who was lazy about returning his phone calls. When she did call, she talked about Pittsburgh. She liked landing planes over the rolling Allegheny Mountains and looked forward to the opening of the new airport in October. She did not invite Marco north even when he hinted that he’d like to see her.
    Marybeth quit nursing at the retirement home to