The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov

“Pass me the sporting news, father, it's high time I brush up on the local competing factions,” said twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov as he sat at the breakfast table drinking an espresso while reading over the previous days market report.

“Sporting news, Vlad? Why, we get no such section,” his father said, puzzled, causing Vladimir to cough up his most recent sip of the dark brew.

“We get no such section? What do you mean we get no such section?”

“I mean, we get no section on the sporting news, local or otherwise.”

Vladimir sat in astonishment. “And how, pray tell, Father, am I to be an honorable man in this world of dodge ball and jai-lai if I can't check the box scores? For as you may or may not know, the market report does little for me socially or sexually.”

Vladimir's father took off his glasses and sat them on the table between the two Karlovs. “But Vlad, you've showed no interest in athletics ‘til now so I've never deemed the sporting news necessary.”

Frustrated, Vladimir continued his argument, “And how is one to show interest in sports, organized or otherwise, if one has no patriarchal figure influencing him to do so? For, unless I'm mistaken, you Father, have done little if nothing at all to promote my athletic side.”

“I was unaware you had an athletic side, Vlad.”

Vladimir jumps from his seat offended and yells with resentment at the emasculating accusation, “How dare you make such a claim, Old Man. Why, I know no other with as much athletic prowess as I. You have obviously forgotten the time I carried all the groceries, eleven bags total, up eight flights of stairs because the elevator was out of service. Or the time I moved the couch to vacuum under it while we were in flux of cleaning ladies. Yes, Father, your son is quite athletic indeed.”

“It seems I've forgotten those events, Vlad.”

“Do your research, Old Man, before you make such allegations so that future defamations can be avoided.”

“Duly noted, Vlad.”

“Now, hand me the leisure section until this abomination of news has been remedied.”

Vladimir's father did just that, then put his glasses back on as Vladimir took another sip of his espresso.

The next morning Vladimir and his father sat at the breakfast table just as they did the day before, except that Vladimir was now reading the sporting news. “Seems there's been another brouhaha between some closely related districts,” he said without looking away from the paper.

“Is that so, Vlad?”

Vladimir scoffs condescendingly, “Seeing as you know so little of our local teams, I find it almost useless to bring it up at all, but your interest is, if nothing else, childishly amusing, Father.” Vladimir readjusts the paper and takes another sip of espresso. “You see, Father, the north/south rivalry has been going on before you were even born and each year it only gets more heated. This year is particularly tense because both teams are vying for the championship. Contenders if you will.” Vladimir continues with a casual gaze over the paper, “Yep, those boys really have got it in for each other. I wonder if it's too late to join a side?”

“I don't see why not, Vlad.”

“Of course you don't, Father, you know very little of the situation; but I know very well it's not as easy as your daydreams would have you think.”

Vladimir's father once again takes his glasses off and places them on the table between them. “And how will you decide, Vlad?”

“These north boys have really got them some classy-looking uniforms, don't they?” Speaking more to himself than his father. “That red collar is really something and as much as I fear their use of white as a contrasting color, what with its tendency for staining, one can't ignore the striking resemblance the whole ensemble has with royalty.”

Vladimir was never one for stains.

When he was seven he had purchased himself a white blazer to wear for his sailing trips to Nantucket and with that white blazer he had purchased a hat - a matching white one with a bright gold crest. When worn together for the first time, a young senator and his wife, whose boat shared a dockside, said with wondrous appeal, “Why Vladimir, you look stunning in such white, why have we not seen this blazer before?”

“Senator and wife, I've just purchased it today for my trip across the tides.”

“You look like a senator yourself, Vlad, you look like a senator yourself.”

“Then I'd watch what you're doing on the hill, Old Boy, for I just might throw my hat in.”

And the senator and his wife laughed and Vladimir laughed along. His blazer white and winded and his hat posted on just right.

“But, Vlad, I say, but, Vlad.”

“Yes, senator, do speak.”

“You have a red mark on the collar, you have red mark right there.”

“A mark on my collar, Senator?”

“Yes, a mark on your collar, Vlad, a mark constituents won't allow.”

Vladimir looked to his collar to see the red splotch, a bisque of some sort he determined.

“Perhaps it's the lobster, Vlad,” the senator said.

“It could be the chowder too,” his wife chimed in.

“This will not do, Senator and Wife, no, this will certainly not do.” And Vladimir threw the jacket in the water, and stormed from the boat at once, never to return again.

Vladimir contemplates silently, weighing in both sides. He then finishes off the espresso in a final lasting gulp.

“North it is, Father.”

“Even with the stains, Vlad?”

“Even with the stains. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to set up an appointment with this Coach Carroll fellow. My lack of organized sports involvement must be abolished immediately before anymore women find out of my absence.” Vladimir gets up from the table, tossing the paper aside. “And when I'm out, start freeing up some cash for whatever equipment I'll need. Those uniforms probably don't come cheap so sell whatever stocks you need to, liquidate all assets if need be. Time to trim the fat Father, both literally and figuratively. These espressos will be the first to go and what say you to turning the dining room into a home gym?”

“We'll have to ask your mother.”

“Hmm, still no backbone, eh Pops? Yes, the temptress has quite the claw hold on you, doesn't she? Interesting. The likelihood that she'll approve of such a project is slim to none so I guess I'll have to figure something out on my own as usual. For now, though, I'll start taking the stairs exclusively. That day with the groceries was overwhelming on the heart if I remember correctly, quite arousing too. Yes, the stairs it is. Now I'm off. Start your fundraising as soon as I leave. I'll need to be in uniform by next week's game. This endeavor can wait no longer.”

And Vladimir was off in a rush of velvet elegance and imported fragrance.

To Vladimir's surprise, Coach Carroll's office was not at a gym or any sporting facility for that matter, but on the thirty-ninth floor of the Trimark Building. It seemed, in his spare time, Coach Carroll ran a company that manufactured aluminum cans of various shapes and sizes for various industries; and when Vladimir strutted into the office, flexing his meager arms and puffing out his chest to feign the air of an athlete, he could see examples of the many different cans on a large shelf at the far end of the office.

“So I'll cut right to the chase Carroll, I want on the team and I'll pay whatever I need to pay to make it so.”

“Are you the young man that called earlier?” A stressed-out middle-aged man with a salt and pepper mustache asked, as he looked up from his desk, which was flooded in papers.

“My name is Vladimir Karlov and I'm a born athlete. All forms of sport are an ease to me. Olympians know me and record holders fear me.”

“And do you have any experience playing soccer?”

“I've not yet kicked a soccer ball, but that is of no consequence. I pick up everything immediately. The first time I cooked a soufflé I was awarded a medal of honor from the local commission of chefs and restaurant owners. Publishing deals are in the works as we speak.”

“It seems a bit late to be joining the team, don't you think, Vlad?”

Vladimir stiffened, surveying the shelves of aluminum cans. “Look Carroll, I don't question your business. What you do with aluminum is none of my concern, your marketing approach to alter falling profits, though inadequate and incapable of ever pulling you out of this lull in sales, is none of my business. So please, do not question my intentions.”

Coach Carroll sits upright. “Well Vlad, it's not your intentions I'm questioning, just your ability.”

“Fortunately for you, you don't have a soccer ball present or I would make you eat those words promptly. Now what say you to my addition to the team?”

“Well Vlad, seeing as I can't deny anybody their right to play for their districts' recreational team, I guess you're on. So long as you're the correct age that is.”

“Of course,” feigning laughter, “perfectly understandable now as to why you had such earlier doubts, Carroll. Time and time again I'm mistaken for being much older. It's my class and demeanor that fools many a man, and a fair share of women too I might add, which is never a bad thing, is it Carroll old boy? But I assure you, I am only twelve.”

Vladimir is now standing tall, one foot placed valiantly atop the chair he had just been sitting in and Coach Carroll, exhausted by Vladimir's self-promoting, finally gives in. “We practice Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. Games are on Saturday at noon.”

“And what of my uniform?”

“We'll have one for you by Saturday's game.”

“When will I have to go in for my fitting?”

“Get yourself some cleats and shin-guards too.”

“Cleats, shin guards. Right. I'll have to stop at the local sporting goods store on my way back home. You wouldn't happen to have a picture of these apparatuses would you?”

Coach Carroll looks to Vladimir, mustache twitching.

“Of course you don't, not necessary, it was only a joke, as if I don't know what cleats and shin guards look like. Now, about these uniforms, are we set on white? Any possibility we can change the white to a light brown or tan even? Red and any shade of brown would really be striking, don't you think?”

“You want on the team, you wear the white and red.”

Vladimir smiles knowing he will continue his platform for uniform reform after he has played a few games and won the respect of his teammates and, more importantly, the cheerleaders.

“You're a hard bargainer, Carroll old boy, but I guess you have to be when you're in aluminum. Give a hello to the misses for me, will ya?” Vladimir points to a picture of Carroll and his wife, a ravishing blonde wearing a black dress and dark eyeliner. “Boy is she a looker. Nice job, Carroll, hope I get to meet her sometime.” Meet her and more, Vladimir thought. “Meet her and more.”

“What's that, Vlad?” Coach Carroll said, moving the picture slightly to face away from Vladimir's gaze.

“Cleats and shin guards it is, Carroll.” Vladimir leaves the office just before his lusting for Mrs. Carroll reveals itself below the corduroy. Then, with her on his mind, he heads for the thirty-nine flights of stairs, knowing he'll be able to take a break halfway to relieve his corduroy bulge in the soft light of the stairwell.

Training for the soccer team is already starting to pay off, Vladimir thinks, as he points himself into the corner between the thirty-seventh and thirty-sixth floor, Mrs. Carroll's dark eyeliner racing through his mind over his hand and onto the concrete wall. He takes the elevator from the thirty-sixth floor down.

That night he thought about Mrs. Carroll during sets of jumping jacks, and when he rested he looked at himself in the mirror, admiring the sweat that was pouring from his forehead. He wore bright blue socks to cover the shin guards and his cleats were pitch black except for a single green strip along both heels.

“Vladimir Karlov, stop that jumping around, you'll wake the entire city with that racket!” his mother yelled from down the long hall.

“This racket is nothing compared to the howling you make on nights when the moon is full, Ware Woman, now back to sleep with you; or, if you must stay awake, run to the fridge, for all this exercise is reeking havoc on my fluid levels. And while you're up, some form of power food wouldn't hurt, that leftover pasta, though unbearable to eat again, I imagine will have to do.” Vladimir stood silently waiting for movement from the other end of the hall, but there was nothing. He then started another set of jumping jacks, Mrs. Carroll flashing through his mind in various sexual positions with each rattle and scrape of cleat on the hardwood floor. His hands slapping above his head, louder and louder with every hit, ‘til he could do no more and he passed out on the floor, streaks of dark eyeliner tearing through the glossy wood paneling below him.

Vladimir carries a large green water bottle, paper cup dispenser attached, in his hand and a yellow soccer ball under his other arm. He wears shin guards and cleats; appropriately scuffed from the previous night's exercises, yellow reflective soccer shorts, a goalie's jersey, and giant goalie gloves, Velcro still undone. On a nearby field there is a group of kids his age passing the ball around casually. To their left is a large pile of various bags and water bottles. Vladimir approaches the pile and places his belongings alongside them before stepping out amongst the kids.

“Vladimir Karlov?” says his blonde-haired classmate, Tyler.

“Yes, I am he. And what is your name?”

“You know my name, now what the hell are you doing out here? Since when do you play soccer?”

“Soccer? Oh, haha, yes, you mean futbol. Well, if you must know, I've played futbol as long as I can remember. I had been traveling with the Brazilian national team this past summer, in fact, as recently as last week, hence the reason I've already missed several weeks of this season with you all. It was hard to leave them, of course, after all, we were a mere week from our match with Argentina; but when I said I had to go back to defeat my bitter rival, South District, they understood.” Vladimir dropped the ball from his hands, accidentally bouncing if off his toe, causing it to roll to Tyler who easily kicked it up to himself.

“Brazil, huh?”

“Your pronunciation isn't quite there, but yes, I believe we're speaking of the same place. Large country in South America. In fact the colors I'm wearing are the same as the teams. My official jersey is at home of course, don't want to ruin it at practice--”

“Hey Vlad, why don't you shut the hell up and go chase your football ,” Tyler then punts Vladimir's soccer ball off into the distance where it rolls into a ditch, hidden amongst bushes and tall grass, thereby setting Vladimir off.

“Tyler, you mongrel! You blonde-haired Jesuit cream puff! How dare you punt my ball into the tall grass?! Why, I just purchased that item yesterday evening, it has not a single scuff or scratch on it; but worry not, for I assure you Son of Socialism, if there's so much as a piece of grass attached or a drop of water wetting when I pull her out of the brush and brine of the ditch, there will be an equal amount of scuffs and scratches on that pale face of yours!”

Tyler takes several aggressive steps towards Vladimir just as Coach Carroll comes up from behind and steals the ball from between Tyler's legs. “Oh come on now, Tyler, you gotta pay more attention than that, boy.” Coach Carroll laughs aloud. Tyler then turns to try and steal his ball back, forgetting about Vladimir.

Vladimir begins his walk towards the ditch, yelling over his shoulder, “Yes, yes, Tyler, one must pay more attention in the future, why what would have happened if that were to occur in a game, right near our goal? I'll tell you what, a score against us, that's what, and it'd be all your fault.” Vladimir continues on with his head down, playing with the Velcro on his goalie gloves.

“Watch where you're stepping there, Vlad.”

Vladimir looks up to see Henry in denim over-alls, a blue t-shirt and a painter's cap. In front of him, he pushes a small metal cart that carries a white bottle of spray paint.

“Sorry, Henry old friend, a bit out of it, it seems.”

“Walking with your head down, eh Vlad, the usual day dreams?”

“The usual, Henry, the usual.”

Henry then pulls out a flask and hands it over to Vladimir who takes a sip down smooth and another to follow before speaking up again.

“Now what say you of this paint can?”

“Lining the field, Vlad, making the green grass white.”

“And soccer? I was unaware you were a fan.”

“Just traveling around the fields, Vlad, keeping you in sight.”

Vladimir takes another swig from the flask, wiping the excess from his mouth with his bright yellow goalie gloves.

“I appreciate the attention my lawn artist friend.”

“Speak nothing of it, I'm with you ‘til the end.”

“But, Henry.”

“Yes, Vlad?”

“But, Henry, I'm going mad.”

“What is it, Young Sir, is the woman not yet here?”

“No, only her fat husband, whose mustache grows white and clear.”

Vladimir points to Coach Carroll off in the distance as he begins setting up cones in a line down the middle of the field. The kids are gathered around with soccer balls at their feet.

“I'm not sure I'm cut out for this foolish little game.”

“But how else will you impress that woman without a name?”

“I have charm and wit, Henry, sport is for the birds.”

“You have charm and wit, Vlad, but this woman has you stirred.”

Henry begins to walk again, spraying a white line ahead of him as Vladimir walks beside him, one goalie glove holding the near empty flask tight.

“Though I must say, Vlad, that outfight is quite nice.”

Vladimir looks himself over.

“The green and yellow and blue, Vlad.”

Vladimir flips the flask over.

The rest of the liquid pours down his throat and warms his bloated belly, causing the yellow reflective mesh to blow out when he inhales. His breath is heavy with scotch and his tongue dances about.

“This scotch must be new, Henry, for I cannot feel my tongue.”

“The scotch is all the same.”

“Then how do you explain my tongue, Henry?”

“I'm sure there's a woman to blame.”

Vladimir looks up as if awakened.

“Of course there is, Henry, her dark eyeliner has stole my voice.”

“Then steal it back, my friend, to this you have no choice,” and Henry continues talking as Vladimir follows along. “For how will she know to kiss you where or brush her hair and throw it back in lust, or flip around on all fours, yelling ‘enter me if you must!'?”

“Why, I guess she won't, Henry, unless I learn to talk.”

“Then move in fast for there she is, now's not the time to balk.”

Across the field in an adjacent parking lot is Mrs. Carroll. She carries a net full of soccer balls and walks to the circle of bags and water bottles where Vladimir had earlier set his stuff.

“Make your move, Vlad, before it's too late.”

“I'll tighten my gloves and make her my mate.”

“Tighten your gloves and loosen your shorts.”

“I'll tighten my gloves and loosen my shorts, and soon tear it all away.”

Vladimir leaves Henry's side, taking long strides towards Mrs. Carroll as she empties the net of soccer balls. Her hair falls over her ear and shoulders on one side, while the other is tight and held behind the ear with a fancy opal barrette. She wears jeans that are too tight at the waist and Vladimir can see her breathing, wishing to be free of the denim suffocation. Her form-fitting black blazer is too short so that when she moves it rises on the sides and Vladimir can see the flesh underneath as it yearns to be relieved, yearns to breathe, yearns to be kissed and caressed. Vladimir quickens his pace, his manhood racing ahead, running faster than he could ever wish to run, but he tries all the same and by the time he gets near her, he is sweating and out of breath. The jumping jacks were useless, he thinks to himself, stopping just a few feet from her, coughing and lifting his arms over his head to cure the cramps.

Mrs. Carroll hears the coughing and turns to see Vladimir standing just a few feet away with his arms above his head and eyes closed, his arousal reaching out to her.

Just then Vladimir opens his eyes to see her looking at his waist. A huge grin of confidence crosses Vladimir's face just as she looks up to see him staring back, but before he can say anything, he hears a yell coming from his right.

“Heads up Soft Hands!” And before Vladimir can react, a ball hits him directly in the side of the face, knocking him from his gaze, his brain shaking inside from the ball's force and the scotch that was making him float.

After a moment to gather himself, Vladimir stands up straight and puffs out his chest while he tightens the Velcro on his goalie gloves. “Who dares attack me, who dares attack Vladimir Karlov?!” Vladimir goes for the ball just a few feet away, but just as he's about to pick it up, Tyler kicks it away from his hands and Vladimir tumbles forward.

The team laughs aloud as he rolls up from the grass. “These shorts are new, and the shirt just the same. Purchased with war bonds worth more than your lives. Now speak aloud you vagabond misfits, who is the culprit to kick the ball at my face? Whoever speaks first will be spared.” But the kids just continued to laugh. “Hold your tongues you bastards of a failed monarchy, you children of thieves and pirates, servants everyone. There's not a man among you, for men do not giggle and guffaw, men do not snicker and cackle with weak wrists and necks. So I say again, who has doomed themselves by attacking me?”

Coach Carroll finally intervenes as the rest of the team continues to laugh at the swaying Vladimir as he zips and unzips the Velcro. “If you wanna be a goalie, Vlad, you better start watching the ball a little better.”

“I watch the ball just fine, Old Man, its these vagrants of yours who need watching, cowards everyone.”

“Now Vlad, these are your teammates, and you'll need to get along.”

“Teammates? Nay old man, these are no mates of mine.”

“They'll have to be, Vlad, or you'll have to leave the field.”

Vladimir tightens his gloves again and again as the team watches on in anticipation and Vladimir stares back with disdain. He then looks up to Coach Carroll who is no longer paying attention, for he's looking over to his wife. Intrigued, Vladimir follows his gaze to Mrs. Carroll who was leaning over one bag to get to another, allowing them to catch a glimpse of the world below her blouse, supple and strong and full of nourishment. Then the rest of the team follows their gaze to witness the same celestial bodies that pour out from Mrs. Carroll's top, their nylon shorts all rising up in unison.

Then, while staring at Mrs. Carroll's breasts, lost in their ability to produce a nation, Vladimir is immediately reminded of why he took up sport in the first place, and shocks himself out of his sexually-induced coma, yelling aloud to the team still lost in her bow. “I will be your teammates and you will be my team. Yes, you will be my team, for I seek more than just glory on this field. I seek more than just glory amongst you illiterate hooligans with your stained shorts and knotted hair. Yes, I seek more, I seek much more indeed. I seek glory in the only place worth the title. The bedroom, yes you ingrates, the sack. And the woman I bed with will know such a title. The woman I bed with will know such glory. So scatter and give me room, teammates, for it's jumping-jack time for me.”

Vladimir breathes in deep, reaches for the sky to stretch, his teammates awakened and looking on in confusion and anticipation. Vladimir then opens his eyes and without saying a word, begins doing jumping-jacks.

“1, 2, 3, 4…” The clap of his hands accompanies each number he yells, getting louder and louder like the night before as breasts and beds flashed before his eyes.

Moments later, the noise amplifies as the rest of the boys join in, with images of the same flashing before their eyes.

“… 10, 11, 12, 13…” cries the team in suit, their Brazilian leader directing the cadence that echoes across the field and into the woods and city beyond. Every one of his teammates in their own world, yet jumping all together. Clapping and clapping and clapping, ‘til their hands are red and the sun has set and their bedrooms are full of new dreams.