Payton Hidden Away (11 page)

“Baseball ain’t all that
different from life,” Ritchie says as he tosses me the ball. He’s all worked up
again, a bead of sweat threatening to roll from his upper lip into his mouth.
He’s not even throwing hard.

“What’s that?” I
ask.

“I said baseball
ain’t all that different from life. The pitcher in any game is only as good as
his defense. Kinda like a man is only as good as his word. It’s symboliasiam.”

“Symbolism,
dummy.”

Ritchie frowns,
but he’s determined to make his point. “The pitcher puts the ball over the
plate, and sooner or later, the batter’s gonna make contact. From that moment
on, the infield or the outfield either makes the pitcher look good or…it
don’t.”

Philosopher
Ritchie is about to go off on one of his epic, if not pointless, soliloquies.
It’s happened before, and the end result is usually pretty disturbing.

“A guy hits a
pop-fly, and it’s an easy out,” he continues. “But if there’s no one to catch
it, the pitcher looks like a turd ‘cause he let a hit drop. Maybe a run scores.
Maybe two. Now his ERA’s for shit. He threw a good ball, and the batter popped
it up, but life let him down.”

“That’s pretty
profound.”

“Look at it
upside down.”

“You mean the
other way around?”

“Multiple things
can bail your ace out of a bad inning, but if the infield mucks it up, runners
score. If the ace jams the guy and your infield has even an inkling of a clue,
they turn a double-play. It’s a thing of beauty. You set it up by throwing the
perfect pitch, but you still need your guys to turn a six, four, three.”

“I once saw a
game where they turned a one, two, one triple play or something like that.” My
words just hang on the air. Ritchie stares at me like I have absolutely no
conception what baseball is or what it means. “I mean, you know...”

“That’s
impossible,” Ritchie argues.

“It was
something like that.”

“It was nothing
like that.”

“How do you
know? Were you there?”

“No, I wasn’t
there. Were you there?”

“No.”

“That’s because
it’s impossible.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s hotter
than hell out here.”

“And you
criticize me for my dirty mouth? You’ve been cussing all day.”

“That’s one of
them good bad words. God lets those slide.”

“You know this
for certain?”

“I know this for
certain. My dad taught me.”

“You hate your
dad.”

“That don’t make
him wrong.”

I smile. “Déjà
vu, huh?”

Ritchie frowns.
“What?”

“We practically
had this same exact conversation just the other day.”

“What
conversation?”

I shake my head.
“Never mind.” Frustrated, I hurl the ball back as hard as I can. Ritchie
catches it like a pro before lowering the ball to his side, his eyes never
leaving mine.

“What was that?”
he snaps. “What did you just throw me?”

“What do you
mean?”

“Did you just
throw heat?”

“No.”

“That was heat.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“You want me to
start throwing heat?”

“Not
especially.”

Ritchie rears
back and hurls the ball my way. I react defensively, scrunching my face,
lifting a leg defensively while holding out my glove. The ball strikes dead
center, smacking my palm and sending a bolt of lightning through my body.

“You like that?”
he calls. “Feel good?”

“That’s it. I’m
out. I’m done.”

“It’s time for
ice cream anyhow,” Ritchie says.

I shake the pain
from my hand while biting my lower lip. I make a slashing sign across my neck.
“No can do.”

“Why not?”

“I spent my
dough on Kristie,” I say. “I’m waiting for my next paycheck.”

“It’s on me.”

“Do I look like
I take charity? Why is everyone offering to buy for me lately?”

Ritchie
approaches, that dumb grin on his face, and slaps me on the back. “I am a man
with a plan, my man. There’s someone I’d like me to meet.”

“Another girl?”

“No, a dude,” he
answers sarcastically.

“I thought you
wanted Joanne?”

“I do want
Joanne, but Joanne needs to know she has competition. Otherwise, what’s her
inception to chase me?”

“Incentive.”

“Huh?”

“The word you’re
looking for is ‘incentive.’ God, you’re a moron.”

“I’m also sweating
my ass off.”

“You’re always
sweating your ass off.”

“I want ice
cream.”

“You always want
ice cream.”

“And I told you
I’m buying.”

I pinch my lips,
but say nothing.

“I’m buying,”
Ritchie repeats. “Let’s go.”

We head downtown, all the while
tossing the ball back and forth. Underhand, overhand, over the road—over the
top of passing cars. It’s a game. I can’t throw like him, but I love baseball the
way Ritchie does. We watch the Tigers religiously whenever they’re on local
channels. We’ve even made the trek out to Tiger Stadium to catch a
double-header. Twice.

Like gangsters,
Ritchie and me walk up to the Soft Spot like we own the joint. Ritchie shoves
the baseball in his pocket, leans into the service window, takes a toothpick
from the dispenser, pinches it between yellow teeth and winks at the girl
working the counter. Her name is Rachel Russell. She’s in two of my classes,
and she’s a cutie, no question.

“What’s up,
sweetheart?” Ritchie asks.

Rachel frowns.
“What do you want, Ritchie?”

“A little bit of
chocolate, a little bit of vanilla and a little bit of you,” he says with a
grin.

“Nice.” She
snaps her bubblegum, her eyes unimpressed.

“Come on,
everyone loves Ritchie Hudson. We’re in first place ‘cuzza me. We’re in the
running for state title.”

“For what,
polo?”

He frowns,
angrily. “No, not polo. Nobody plays polo. We don’t even have a polo team.”

“She was
kidding,” I mumble.

“I don’t like
baseball,” Rachel says defiantly.

“Well, there’s
your problem.”

“I don’t have a
problem.”

I have to admit,
she’s scoring major points in my book with the way she is handling my
over-ambitious friend. I never realized she was so witty. Freckles aside, she
just jumped two notches higher on ‘Tony’s Official Hot List.’ She’s now
bordering on I’d-like-to-know-more.

“Yes you do,”
Ritchie says. “You’re too uptight. Pinched too tight to get me and my friend
here a cold one on the house. How about a little team spirit?”

“My boss is from
Lawton. Technically, you’re the enemy.”

Ritchie shakes
his head. “Now I’m getting upset. Lawton? Those small-town motherfuckers
couldn’t pitch a campaign.”

“Enough,” I
interrupt. “You said you’re treating.”

Ritchie bites
his tongue, eyes the menu and looks at Rachel. “You’re lucky my friend’s here.
He’s the voice of wisdom. He keeps me in line—keeps me calm. It’s pretty hard
to make him mad, but once that chain’s rattled, you’d better look out.”

“Ritchie,” I
warn.

He frowns. “Two
soft-swirls, sweetheart. Chocolate.”

Rachel smiles…at
me
, and her smile is really quite cute. “$4.77.”

There’s something
about ice-cream on a scalding hot afternoon. It’s an early spring, and it’s too
late to say no. It’s also one of those moments I’ll remember for the rest of my
life. Someday I’ll tell my kids how ‘
back in the day
’ we used to buy ice
cream while tossing around a baseball instead of playing video games. Of
course, by then, Main Street will be six lanes wide, and ice cream shops will
be a relic of the past. We’ll probably be zipping around on flying scooters and
taking college courses on that new thing called the ‘internet’ with virtual
instructors who are made up of ones and zeroes instead of flesh and blood.

“You seein’ your
girl tonight?” Ritchie asks.

“We saw each
other last night.”

“You fuck her
yet?”

“Jesus Christ,
Ritchie. What kind of question is that?”

His face
contorts. “Why you gotta be so vulgar? What did we talk about?”

“I’m being
vulgar? What did you just ask me?”

“Did you hear me
get all blasphemous?” He pouts, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the
melting ice cream cone. “There’s a difference in the way you say it. I ain’t
kiddin’.”

“Tell you what,
you watch your mouth, and I’ll watch mine. How’s that?”

“Just don’t piss
Him off. That’s all I ask.”

“Then don’t talk
shit about my girlfriend. That’s all
I
ask.” I don’t stand up to him
very often, but this time he crossed the line. Truth be told, Kristie and I did
do the
deed
. And I give credit to Joanne, because she knew her sister
would never have a moment alone with me so long as Ritchie was hanging around,
so she took him aside and gave him his first tutoring lesson. Kristie led me to
her room where she quietly shut her door and locked it. I think we were both
embarrassed and shy and nervous, because we both knew what was about to happen,
yet neither of us really knew how to start things off. I remember wishing I had
brought a condom, but I didn’t want to look like a schmuck for expecting
something I didn’t have a right to expect.

Kristie kept
herself busy by putting a red T-shirt over her lamp to create a mood—albeit a T-shirt-over-a-lamp
mood—before putting on some soft music. It was lousy music, but whatever. Then
we both sat down. Then we made eye-contact. Then we looked away, because we
were embarrassed. And shy. And nervous. I wanted to be ‘the man,’ and I wanted
her so bad that my heart pounded a million times a minute, yet at the same
time, I wanted the ‘event’ to be like in one those grainy pornos Ritchie’s dad
recorded and left laying around. I didn’t know if I could actually maneuver my
body into those positions, but I would give it a go while trying to make it
look natural. Carefully, I—

“Tony!” Ritchie
shouts, dragging me back to reality. “You listenin’ or what?”

I nod, ice-cream
running along the cone and over my hand.

“So, what do you
think? Should I send her flowers?”

“Who?”

“Joanne.”

“What’s the big deal
with Joanne? There are a hundred other girls just as pretty as her dying to get
your attention.”

Of course, I
already know what the big deal is. Joanne’s the one that doesn’t want him back.
She’s allusive and therefore a prize. Then again—

“Because she’s
like Kristie,” he mumbles.

This is not the
answer I expected.

“You and Kristie
have this perfect ‘thing’ goin’ on,” he continues. “That’s what I want.”

“Are you saying
you have a crush on my girlfriend?”

“No.” He tosses
his ice cream away. “I ain’t sayin’ that at all.”

“You’re saying
something that’s bordering on awfully awkward.”

“Forget it. It’s
too hot for ice-cream. Damn thing’s melting everywhere.”

“Then what?” I
demand.

He looks at me,
and it’s the sheepish—almost embarrassed Ritchie who’s eyeing me. “You’re like
my big brother,” he says. “I look up to you.”

“You’re older
than me.”

“I’m trying to
be serious for once.”

“Then be
serious.” I have no idea what this has to do with Kristie, but if he starts
making moves on my girl, I swear I’ll—

“If we’re dating
sisters, then there’s no competition.”

I frown. “What
competition?”

“I mean…” He
kicks a rock. “You’re better than me…”

“Ritchie,” I
try, but I don’t even know what to say. Everybody looks up to Ritchie. He’s the
small-town hero. I’m nobody. I’m just an average guy trying to finish out
high-school, get my ducks in a row for college and romance my girl. My life’s a
disaster due to all those things that make being a teenager so difficult.
“Ritchie, there’s no competition. You can date anyone you want, and it’s cool,
man.”

“That’s not the
point.”

“Then what is?”

“I’m…”

“What?”

“I can’t explain
it.”

“Well, you’d
better try, because I’m starting to freak out.”

He bunches up
his face. Kind of like Yoda. “I want the all-American dream. I want you and me
to have side-by-side backyards. I want us to have matching three-bedroom
ranchers. I want to let my dog out the back door at the same time you let your
dog out the back door. We’ll wave even though we won’t have nothin’ to say.
Then, on Saturday nights, we’ll have backyard barbecues. One week I’ll
barbecue, and you and the missus will bring a dish to pass. The next week we’ll
trade off. Your wife will look like mine. Your house will look like mine. Your
dog will look like mine. We’ll be brothers. Forever.”

I stand there. “That’s
a little weird.”

He frowns. “If
you marry Kristie and I marry Joanne, then they’ll wanna be neighbors too.
There won’t be no argument. There won’t be no competition. And you won’t go
away to college.” Ritchie comes from a messed up family, but he’s always been
innocently naïve, oblivious to reality. He’s a brute, just like his dad, but
different. “I told you it’s stupid,” he mutters.

 I look down at
my sticky fingers. “How did the tutoring session go last night?”

He shakes his
head. “Fuck prepositions.”

That’s my
friend, and that’s his way. He’s right. Life is like baseball. He does it his
way. Rules don’t apply, not because he’s defiant, but because he doesn’t
understand the politics. He just wants to throw the ball.

“Prepositions
aside, how did things go with Joanne?”

Ritchie shrugs.
“I don’t know.”

“She’s tutoring
you for free. She wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”

“It’s not like
it was a date or anything.”

I finish my ice
cream and toss the baseball back Ritchie’s way, knowing the best way to change
the subject is to distract him. Ritchie holds onto the ball while looking off
to his right. He’s staring, straying from the sidewalk as he leans in the
direction he’s looking. He’d walk right into traffic if I don’t grab him by the
shirt and yank him back.

“What are you
looking at?” I ask.

“Is that Mandy?”

“Mandy who?”

“Ferguson.”

“Mandy Ferguson?”

“Yeah, Mandy Ferguson.”

I look across
the road and across the vacant Walmart parking lot where a woman is arguing
with some guys. To be honest, we’re so far away I can’t really tell, but
Ritchie knows his women the way he knows baseball.

“I don’t know,”
I say. “What’s it matter? You got a game tonight. Let’s go.”

“She don’t look
happy.”

“How can you
tell? She’s like an inch big from here.”

“Come on,”
Ritchie says, darting across the road.

“Ritchie!”

“Come on!”

Groaning, I
follow. Mandy is standing by the boarded up entrance to the old Walmart, and
there are three guys crowding her. She’s arguing, and by the looks of things,
they’re not happy either. This shouldn’t surprise me. Mandy’s been a problem
since grade school. She’s always getting into trouble for something. She’s
always getting suspended for things like fighting or smoking or getting caught
screwing in the bathroom.

Not that any of
that matters to my friend. He likes girls, and he likes fighting. All he needs is
a reason. He probably hasn’t bothered to notice that there’s two of us and
three of them. We’re out-numbered, but Ritchie was never very good with math
anyway.