Nobody Bats a Thousand (36 page)

Lenny went into the TV room, sat down, opened the lid of his stash box, and prepared to roll a joint of Southern California
sinsemilla
even though he was still hazy from the last time he had dipped into his little, hand-painted, tin box. He laid a medium-sized embryonic flower onto a small white plate on the table before him and studied it deeply.  It was dark green with ubiquitous wisps of white and red. He tore apart the weed, which was brittle and sticky, and instantly and odor shot up from the table, hitting him full force, a strong pleasing odor, mid-range between the aroma of a Douglas
fir
tree and the exhaust fumes of a yellow school bus. The instant his nostrils caught the scent his mouth actually started to water. Into Decker’s head flashed a view of him squatting on the couch, arms up, wrists bent in perfect begging position, his spit in heavy ovals dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the plate; his face a caricature, the human equivalent of Pavlov’s most dull-witted mutt.

The entire Slim Whitman song catalogue was offered dirt-cheap as Decker passionately sucked on his
newly rolled reefer. A
semi-notable actress suddenly came on the screen in a full-faced close up.  She began to give a sincere, pursuant testimonial on her choice of tampons. Decker decided it was time for another beer.

He checked the refrigerator but his last Budweiser had been had. No chance, he kept too good of a mental inventory for something like this to occur. He looked behind the Miracle Whip. He checked the bottom shelf. He dug through the lettuce drawer; no
mas
Budweiser, senor. How could this be? Simple, some scum had crawled up the sheer cliff from the water, taken Decker’s last brew,
then
slipped away while the master of the house lay on the couch in a drunken drug stupor. The world was full of conniving heartless thieves.

He walked back into the small TV room, flopped down on the couch, and began to use the remote control to surf through the possibilities:
Scooby Doo
,
Three’s Company
, or
Gomer
Pyle U. S. M. C
.  Not much of a choice, so he got up, gathered his things, flicked off the TV and set out on the short walk down to the village.

The time was around noon as he walked down the hill, wearing only shorts, a T-shirt and jogging shoes as he slapped a Rawlings baseball into a Jose Canseco model glove.  The sun was
shining
brightly in a cloudless, blue sky, but the street and the beach were nearly deserted, and Decker was stimulated with the feeling that this beautiful day was his and his alone.

He bought a beer and set it down on the concrete in a small patch of shade after he had walked down to the basketball court on the beach. He began throwing the ball against the basement wall of Frank’s Liquors.
The ball bashed against the flat brick and came back top-spinning off the cement of the court, fast but true hops,
a
poor man’s
astro
-turf.  He played shortstop, lightly charging the ball along the length of the wall; then he played third base, slowly approaching the wall, coming closer and closer, generally in a straight line, still firing the ball, trying, testing his concentration, and risking his virility, over and over, quicker and quicker, cutting his reaction time to almost nil until he would boot one; then he would move back and start over, sweating and panting in the lustrous sunshine.

The game did not last long. After it was over, Decker used the stairs to climb up to the sidewalk where he sat, back against the short cement wall, draining his beer and feeling more than a bit out of shape.

A youngster, four-foot-six-inches tall with black hair cut just above his scalp, was all of a sudden standing over Decker, pounding his small fist into a freshly oiled baseball glove.

“You want to play some catch?” he asked.

Decker was just in the mood for a little catch. They walked down to the beach, and squared off in the fluffy sand.

After a few preliminary tosses Decker decided to give the short little sucker a tryout. He aimed alternatively for shoulders, sternum, knees, neck, and head. The kid handled them all with ease. Decker put a little steam on the ball, no complaints.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a coke,” Lenny said.

As Decker drank a fresh beer his new protégé leaned against the wall of the liquor store drinking a diet Sprite.

“My name’s Lenny.” Decker offered his hand.

“My name’s Jake. My dad’s renting the cabin next to yours for a week. We’re from Wasco.
Where you from?”

“Hey, ease off with the hard questions. I had a rough night.”

Jake took a drink and wiped his mouth with his arm. “You’re a pretty good ballplayer. I can tell.”

“Yeah, baseball used to be my number one sport until I got into something else.”

“But can you hit?”

Decker briefly thought of Bruce Springsteen singing
Glory Days
. “Yeah, I can hit,” he said with confidence.

“That’s what I plan on doing, playing pro ball.”

“Yeah?
Well, if it was easy everybody would be doing it.”

“Well, if I don’t make it I can always be a coach
or maybe a dentist like my dad.
” Jake took another drink. “Actually, my possibilities are endless.”

Decker snapped the ball into the bottom of the web of his glove several times as he sat watching part of an endless set of waves happily sliding to a halt. He caught himself smiling, his first real smile in months.

“Ya know
kid,
whether you end up pulling teeth or playing ball I think you’ll do all right.  But if you do make the
Bigs
don’t forget me. I’ll probably be hitting ya up for tickets.”

“No sweat.”

Decker stood. “Well, thanks for the catch. I’ll see ya around.”

Lenny continued to smile and snap the ball into the heart of his glove as he walked up the hill, headed for hom
e.

The End

ONLY THE MEMORY

Danny stood next to the yellow stucco wall of his family’s garage, taking long relaxed pulls on a cigarette, carefully cupping it to conceal it between drags. A small tawny bird on the telephone wire just above him grabbed his attention. The bird was hopping down the wire, both feet out at forty-five degree angles, hopping in quick rhythm, squeaking, and twisting his head from side to side. The tiny thing seemed to be both confused and delighted with life, a natural entertainer giving his all despite the size of the crowd.

“DANNY!” I know what you’re doing. Stop it and come inside, dinner is ready,” his stepmother yelled from the door that opened into the garage.

“Okay.” Danny choked on the word, waiting for his stepmother’s head to disappear back into the house before he released a small cloud of smoke.

The small bird leaped from the wire and sailed through the air, vanishing into the neighbor’s almond orchard sixty yards away. To the right of the orchard the sun was setting, forming a full pulsating orange circle, which burned against and colored the thin autumn clouds. There was a purple cloud, a pale blue cloud, and Danny stopped to count three other distinct hues spread and mixed across the sky.

He carefully put out his smoke, stored the butt high on a ledge of the exposed internal wooden frame of the garage and went inside.

His stepbrother Peter was the only one at the table, sitting, grinning,
and holding
his knife and fork upright out of his fists like weapons. He turned and quickly looked over his shoulder then turned to face Danny.

“Meatloaf,” Peter spoke the word slowly, the sarcasm dripping from his eyes and smile. Helen’s meatloaf was a private joke between the two. A cruel joke bred from years of weekly misery.

Peter used his fork to stab the chunk of compressed meat. Again checking the hallway, he leaned over and held the crisp, dry rectangle a few inches off the floor while he
snapped his fingers.
“Here boy, here
.”

Danny’s brittle old wire-haired terrier pulled himself to his feet and slowly waddled into the kitchen from the adjoining living room. The dog pulled the prize from the fork onto the floor and savagely began to chew and slurp the meat with his gums and few remaining teeth.

Peter looked at Danny and smiled. “At least Bo likes it.”

“Yeah, he still loves to eat. It’s about all he’s got left.”

Bo quickly finished the entrée and was sniffing and licking the floor with hopeless persistence.
“AHH!”
Peter screamed and threw out his hands. The old dog shuttered, then steadied and managed a brief indignant glare before stumbling under the table beside Danny’s chair.

“Don’t do that,” Danny said. “You could give him a he
art attack. Seriously you could.” H
e rubbed Bo’s shoulder.

“Well, the old bastard’s
gonna
die soon anyway. What’s the difference?”

Danny grimaced. “Why do you have to say that?  I’ve had this guy since I was five. He means a lot to me. He’s t
he greatest dog that ever lived.” H
e looked down and scratched Bo’s head. “Aren’t you
buddy
?”

Bo licked the fur around his lips.

“If
he keeps shitting and pissing in the house it won’t matter how great you think he is. Helen will take him to the vet for that shot to send him to doggie heaven.”

Danny rubbed Bo’s curly matted fur. “Well, just wait and see what your bladder and bowels are like when you’re his age. He’s like eighty-seven. You can be a real ass sometimes.”

“But I’m not an ass whenever you want to bum a cigarette. Why don’t you ever buy a pack? I bet
if

” Peter abruptly stopped, looked down and began using his fork to work his vegetables across his plate.

“Let me check my date book.
” Helen, holding a portable phone, came into and through the room. With her free hand she pulled a book from a drawer and opened it to the future. “It looks like November wi
ll be even busier than December.
” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Oh you know the Millers. They’re always traveling somewhere, and people are always giving them a party to celebrate e
ither them leaving or returning.” A
gain
silent
, Helen’s lips automatically unfolded, displaying her small teeth.  The corners of her mouth crested just below the frames of her glasses while her eyes nervously changed focus, up and down, side to side.
“Oh, we always go to Kauai, that’s our favorite, but Dick’s been so busy I don’t know w
hen we’ll be able to get away.”
A
nother pause.

“Betty, I’ve got to run and get Dick going or we’ll be late for the fund raiser.” With the phone still pressed to her ear she covered the mouthpiece with her right hand. “Danny, get that dog away from the table while you are
eating.” She uncovered the mouthpiece
. “Oh of course, everyone with be there, plus.  When
the

” Helen abruptly stopped and spent this lull impatiently staring at the ceiling.

“It’s been great to hear from you, Betty. We’ll have to get together soon
…great, take care and god-bless.” S
he clicked off the phone just as her husband came down the hallway
, emerging from the bathroom after
his customary early evening bout with constipation. His slight smile made it appear he had met with at least meager success.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Betty Martin.”

“They’re back from Argentina?”

“They were back a week ago but were so tired from jet-lag that they went to Hawaii for a week to rest, and she had to tell me all about it. I swear that woman is terrible. She always wears that tacky fake jewelry, and she’s so, so sweet to your face then the minute you leave the room she has nothing but derogatory things to say about you. She does it to everyone. She’s terrible.”

“Mom, do I have time for a drink?” Dick used the tone of a child employing pity to snag a treat.

“Just one, if you hurry and get dres
sed.
I’ll make it, now hurry up.
” Helen walked to the liquor cabinet. “And make sure you wear the red tie,” she shouted over her shoulder.