Yesterday's Papers

Yesterday’s Papers

Ford held the box up to the light, examined it, and put it right back down on the desk. The box was too large to be the old yearbook that he requested back from Sharon. He took a pull on his beer and decided that he better open the thing. Ford used his mailbox key to open the package. When he got the box open all he could see were balls and balls of crumpled up and yellowed newspaper. He unrolled one ball and read the date on it; December 31, 1999. What in the hell? He thought. Where had Sharon gotten a newspaper this goddamned old, and from the so-called last day of the 20th Century?

Ford thought about that day. He remembered going to the bar with Sharon. They had to go all over the city to find one that was open, or that wasn’t having a private party. They settled on a sports bar. It wasn’t much of a bar, just a couple of pool tables and ESPN playing on two televisions. The joint was new. It hadn’t built up any clientele yet. Ford remembered Sharon taking a long pull on her beer, leaning in so close that her breath was hot on his right ear, and saying wouldn’t it be funny if they became regulars in a place like this? Dinner was a plate of hot wings and fried clams. The entertainment was a table with too bored looking guys tying two helium balloons to a paper cup of complimentary pretzels, seeing if they could get the contraption to sail over the few denizens in the bar. Ford had called the one guy, the bald one with the goatee, Professor. Sharon called him Bill Nye the Science Guy, from these shows she watched as a kid, but that he’d never seen.

The brunette at the bar would give everyone a free glass of champagne at midnight. Ford remembered the champagne being sweet. It was spumante, the bartender said. Her name was Carla. Spumante was Carla’s favorite but Ford didn’t think much about it. Still, he went to the liquor store and got her a bottle of it every year after that, in order for them to ring in the New Year together. It was the least he could do, Ford thought.

As for Sharon, well, Ford guessed that she was still holding a small grudge after all of those years and two children together. It didn’t matter that she’d moved on, and found a second husband of her own, one who made her laugh and was in the process of buying her that big house in the suburbs that she’d always wanted. Time never moved on for a spurned woman, Ford thought. He’d always be a heel in her eyes, even after a decade apart. Ford dug into the box. There was no yearbook in there. Carla would have to wait to see that picture of him playing Fullback on the football team. Ford held up a new ball of the yellowed newspaper from the so-called last day of the last century. He thought about sailing pretzels and the sugary taste of spumante. Then he wished he’d taken his collection of rare and valuable newspapers with him when he’d left Sharon all of those years ago.

Whatever It Takes

Whatever It Takes

A couple of hours before all of this some Arab kid had called Jeff a “motherfucker.” Jeff had thrown the kid out of the library because the kid had been asking for it all day. He’d been pounding on the keyboard of his computers, and playing these obnoxious video games with the sound on. Patrons had complained. When Jeff walked up the stairs into the children’s room to warn the kids they basically brushed him off. He could hear the Arab boy’s laughter as he walked down the steps back to his desk in the adult room. Then came the kid’s voice again. The shouting. The noise from the video game. Jeff let it go for a little bit longer. It was Saturday and he just wanted to get through the workday, come home to Ariel, and have some wine on the couch. It wasn’t so hard to get through a day, was it.

Jeff watched the snow as it fell outside of the library in between helping patrons find books by the latest best-selling authors. They were calling for nearly a foot by the evening. Kids were already out playing in it, laughing and hitting each other with wet snowballs. Jeff smiled to himself and then checked the weather on his computer. Yep. A foot was coming. He looked up, thinking about old snowfalls from his youth. That’s when a couple of girls came running down from the kids room. One of them was crying. They both looked wet.

“They hit us,” the one girl said. “They went outside and got snowballs and hit us.”

“Who?” Jeff asked.

“They did,” the crying girl said. She pointed up to the children’s room, and the loud noise of boys playing video games.

“God damn, “ Jeff said, getting up.

The two girls took off back up the steps as Jeff followed them. He didn’t need this, he thought. The snow was coming. It would be one-foot by nightfall. He just wanted to be home in the warm apartment with Ariel having some of that wine and talking about her day. Not this. Not kids. He didn’t want to deal with kids on a Saturday like this.

“What happened?” Jeff asked.

“They did it!” the girls both shouted. They pointed to a group of boys who had their heads slumped at the computers. In the middle of them was the Arab boy.

“Okay I warned you,” Jeff started. He looked at the floor in the children’s room. It was wet in various spots. “Who threw a snowball?”

“If you were really serious about kicking us out you would’ve done it already,” the Arab boy said. He kept his eyes focused on the video game in front of him. “You would’ve done it.”

“You can go,” Jeff said.

“But I didn’t throw a snowball.”

“I don’t care. You want to be smart. You want to leave the library you can go.”

“I was just saying,” the Arab boy started, whining a little bit.

“Well, you can say it outside,” Jeff said. He glared at the boy. Everyone always told Jeff that he was intimidating, especially when he had his goatee and shaved his head. Jeff’s superintendent at the apartment called him big man. “Get out.”

The Arab kid looked up at Jeff and smirked. “I’m playing a game.”

“Yeah, well learn how to play outside.” Jeff walked over the kid’s computer and shut it off. “There’s nearly a foot of snow out there.”

“This is bullshit,” the Arab boy said, getting up. “I didn’t throw anything.”

“You don’t need to talk like that,” Jeff said. He waited for the Arab boy to get up. The rest of the boys sitting at the computers were stone silent. He followed him down the stairs, and then held the door open for him.

“I can come back next week, right?” the Arab boy asked.

“We’ll see,” Jeff said.

The kid put on his hat and walked out into the snow. He stood defiantly in front of the library. Jeff watched him for a second and then figured the hell with it. Let him stand there all goddamned day in the snow. Jeff went and sat back down at his desk, and checked the weather again. It still said one-foot of snow. He looked up at the children’s room. It was quiet up there. The boys were quiet and the girls who were crying and wet were quiet. The Arab boy was outside. Jeff just had to glide through the last few hours and then he would be home free. He could taste the wine already. He smiled and thought maybe he’d taste Ariel as well. That’s when the Arab boy came back into the library and called Jeff a “motherfucker,” before running back out into the snow.

There might’ve been six inches on the ground already by the time the library closed for the day. Jeff let all of the clerical people go, and then he shut off the lights, set the alarm and locked the building up. No one was on the street and it was only five in the afternoon. Cars crawled. The streetlights and storefront lights illuminated the swirling and falling snow. Everything had an ugly yellow look to it.

Jeff began walking down 14th Avenue, and then he made a right onto 6th. He walked past the coffee shop and it was still filled with most of the old guys from the morning. They’d been talking about football when he was in there, about the old Buffalo Bills and New York Jets. Jeff was more of a baseball fan anyway. Bu he listened to these two guys go back and forth about Namath and O.J. Simpson, as he had his morning cup of coffee and moaned over the coming work day. A Saturday. One foot of snow expected. It was really coming down now, he thought. All he had to do was take that long B4 bus ride and he’d be home and warm with Ariel and wine, the snow safely left outside. It made him smile to think it.

There was hardly any room to stand at the bus stop. People were crowded in tightly between the two partitions of glass. Jeff usually stood outside of this barrier because he didn’t want to deal with people after a day spent talking to them, catering to their questions and needs, but with the snow and wind howling the way they were he had no choice. Jeff squeezed in between an old man and good-looking brunette waiting for her bus. Next to her was a woman speaking in a thick Russian accent. She had packages at her feet that were taking up a lot of the room. She had a child with her, a boy who was bundled up with a maroon jacket and a forest green snowcap. He was moving around the small space, singing, and bouncing up and down. Jeff thought that if the woman could hold one of her packages and get the boy to stop moving around so much, they wouldn’t be so damned cramped at the bus stop. There’d be room for all of them. He was going to say something to the woman, but then a bus came around the corner.

It wasn’t Jeff’s B4. It was a B49. The old man and the good-looking brunette got on the bus, and suddenly there was room. Jeff spread out a little. He felt less and less claustrophobic between the glass partitions. He didn’t even mind that the Russian woman still had her packages on the ground. Jeff didn’t mind the snow either, or the ugly yellow tint of the late afternoon. He didn’t mind anything in that moment because it had been a long day and he was going home.

The boy moved outside of the partition and began walking around in the wind and heavily falling snow. He stomped on the pavement and snow kicked up. It blew around. A little of it got on Jeff’s jacket, splattered on his goatee. Okay, he thought. Just a few more moments of this before I say something. The boy kept it up. He began stomping and stomping, moving around in circles and kicking up snow. It blew between the glass partitions. It went all over Jeff. It went all over his green Army coat and all over his Steelers snowcap. It hit the Russian woman as well. Snow was on her packages.

“Lady,” Jeff said.

The Russian woman stared straight ahead for a moment. “Yuri,” she finally said to the boy. Her accent was very thick. It bothered Jeff because he spent all day dealing with Arab and Russian people, dealing with people like this lady, her son, and that little bastard who called him a name.

Yuri looked up at his mother. He smiled in the ugly yellow tint of the late afternoon and then stomped some more. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

“I know a boy who vill not get his presents,” the lady said.

“No you don’t, no you don’t,” Yuri said. He spoke perfect English. He stomped up and down in the snow. It kicked up in the wind and a cold rush of it came back and hit Jeff in the face.

“Lady, goddamn it,” Jeff said. “God damn!”

“Vat would you like I should do?” the lady asked him.

“Control your kid. Whatever it takes!”

“But he’s excited. They call for a foot of snow.” The lady and Jeff watched Yuri run around in circles outside the bus stop. “A whole foot.”

“That’s fine,” Jeff said. “I understand. But he’s kicking it up all over the place.”
“Yuri,” the woman called to the boy. Yuri stopped running in circles for a second. “You vill not get.”

“But I want it!” Yuri said. He stomped up and down, and snow went everywhere. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Christ,” Jeff said to himself. He wiped the snow off of his jacket. He tried to think about home and Ariel and the wine, but this kid and his mother were pissing him off. He thought about that Arab boy, and Jeff realized he’d been having one fucker of a day. Sure, others had it worse. But this was Jeff’s life. This was his fucker of a day. “Just make him stop, Lady!”

The Russian women turned to face Jeff. She smiled apologetically. He glared. He wondered if the glare was still strong enough with his shaved head covered. Jeff spread out his shoulders to seem broader. He felt bad doing this to a woman on a cold and snowy afternoon, but he really wanted to the kid to stop.

“He is boy,” she said. “It is snow and he is just excited.”

“Take him to the park,” Jeff spat. “This is a bus stop. Let him run around and stomp in the snow at the park. That’s what my old man used to do with me.”

“Yuri,” she called to the boy. Yuri bounced and stomped and got snow on everyone. Finally the woman came out of the glass partition and grabbed the boy by the arm. Yuri squealed in mock pain, as she dragged him back between the pieces of glass. “You vill stand still!”

“But I can’t, I can’t, mom,” Yuri said.

“You vill. You vill. You vill stand still. You vill do whatever it takes to stand still.”

Jeff watched them argue for a moment, the woman pathetically giving demands and Yuri bouncing in place. Fuck it, he thought. The bus would be here soon. Jeff turned away from the woman and her son to look down the street. Snow swirled in the yellow streetlights. Cars continued to crawl. In the distance he could see two, large white lights approaching. Jeff could make out the sign on the digital marquee. B4 it said. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Jeff thought about home and Ariel and wine. Then he felt a spray of cold mist hit him on the side of his face.

“Yuri!” the Russian woman screeched. “Yuri! no!”

Jeff turned when more mist hit him. He turned and the cold mist got him square in the face. It covered his glasses with a fine spray and it got in his goatee. Through the tiny droplets of water Jeff could see Yuri. He had his back to him. Yuri had his hands in front of his pants, and a puddle of water was on the ground. It was running down and seeping into the bags holding his mother’s packages.

“Lady he’s pissing!” Jeff shouted, as more spray hit him.

“Yuri! Yuri no!” the Russian woman continued to shout.

Yuri turned to face her. He looked at his mom and then he looked at Jeff, just as the B4 got to the bus stop. “Mom our bus here,” he said.

“Yuri. Yuri no!” the woman shouted again.

“But you said to stand still. You said to do whatever it takes to stand still.” Yuri shook himself dry and zipped up. “I did it. I did whatever it takes to stand still, mom.”

“But Yuri,” the Russian woman said.

She looked at Jeff for help. She looked at Jeff for something. But Jeff just took off his glasses. He felt sick. He wiped the glasses on his jacket, and then pulled out his wallet to retrieve his bus pass. He got on the bus and found a seat toward the back. Jeff sat next to a group of Arab boys who weren’t the boys from the library. It didn’t matter. He glared at them anyway. He could smell Yuri’s piss on him, and wondered if anyone else could. Then Jeff just sat there as the bus idled at the cold and snowy stop. He didn’t want to read or think about anything. They all waited there, Jeff and the Arab boys. They waited as the Russian woman slowly picked up all of her packages. They waited as Yuri stood by her patiently waiting to get on the bus.

Bobby's Notebook

Bobby’s Notebook

Bobby slammed the door to his bedroom just as Nick was coming out of the bathroom. Nick looked at the door. He waited until he heard movement. Then he heard the television come on, and soon Bobby was laughing at whatever was playing. Nick thought about opening the door and saying something about the television. He didn’t like how much television Bobby was watching. He was too old for cartoons. Nick didn’t understand Bobby’s attraction to all of the old sitcoms that played on the cable channels. Plus, wasn’t it a school night?

“He’s watching TV again,” Nick said, coming into the kitchen.

Amanda was putting the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She had the kitchen sink running in order to wash off the bigger plates. But the water was just running. Nick looked at the faucet and then he shut the water off. “Hey.”

“He’s watching TV again.”

“What would you like me to do, Nick?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know,” Nick said. He sat down at the kitchen table as Amanda continued putting dishes and silverware into the dishwasher. He grabbed the glass of wine sitting there and had a drink. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“You’re going to have to go out for them,” Amanda said. She opened a cabinet underneath the sink and took out the dishwashing liquid. It came in a green and gold container, the colors of the sports team at Bobby’s school.

“How much TV does he watch?” Nick asked.

“A little after school. Then he does his homework and watches the shows at night.”

“He’s a C student.”

“He has a few B’s and A’s too,” Amanda added.

“Bobby got a C in math,” Nick said.

“Well, we were both bad at math.”

Amanda poured the dishwashing liquid into the dishwasher. She closed the compartment and then slammed the door. Nick cringed. The dishwasher had cost a lot. It had cost their tax return money and then some. Nick had thought about buying a home stereo system complete with a Blu-Ray DVD player, and maybe some sports stuff for Bobby with that tax return. But then the goddamned dishwasher broke. Amanda said that he had overstuffed the machine and that’s why it happened. Nick had yet to touch the new machine.

“It’s the TV,” Nick said. He finished off the wine. “We shouldn’t have bought him that TV for Christmas.”

“It was inexpensive,” Amanda said. She took the wine bottle from the counter and refilled Nick’s glass. She didn’t get herself one. “It’s not even a flat-screen.”

“Aren’t you having any?” Nick asked, after having a bit of wine.

“I had two glasses already. I need to be sharp.”

“For?”

“The book club is coming over,” Amanda said.

“Oh Christ, when?”

“I don’t have my watch on.”

There was a noise upstairs, a hard pound on the floor and then movement back and forth. The TV was turned up and then came the sound of a large weight landing. It shook the light fixture in the kitchen. “How much did he eat tonight?” Nick asked.

“You were there,” Amanda said.

“Was it two plates?”

“Leave him alone, Nick,” Amanda said. “I think he had a bad day.”

“Kids don’t have bad days,” Nick said. “Kids go to school.”

“Well, don’t you sound like your father?”

“My mother overfed me when I was a kid. I got fat,” Nick said. He stopped talking for a moment. They listened to the sound of the new dishwasher as it cleaned up their mess. “She fed me two or three portions. It took me until the age of seventeen to lose it. I didn’t even date until I was in college. I didn’t have sex until I turned almost twenty.”

“Bobby likes a girl in his science class,” Amanda said.

“What does it matter if he keeps eating this way?”

“Her name is Katherine. Katie.”

“He eats and he watches too much TV,” Nick said. “Or he plays those games.”

“You bought him that game system,” Amanda said. “Remember I said wait a year or so.”
“My father took my TV away. He took it away and told me I could have it back when my math grade improved.”

“Did it?”

“No. But I didn’t care. I decided to lose weight. I went out and jogged, and I lifted weights with my friend, Mitchell.”

“How’s Mitchell’s divorce going?” Amanda asked.

Nick waved her off and had more wine. “You really already had two glasses of this?”

“I’m going to have more when everyone arrives.”

“What are you reading?”

“Patterson.”

Nick laughed. “What kind of wine is this?”

“It’s French,” Amanda said. “It goes down smooth, doesn’t it? It never gives you a headache. You know how red wine gives me a headache.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said. “Sulfates.”

“Anyway,” Amanda said, sitting down across from him, “I think Bobby had a bad day.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. I got home and he was just sitting in the living room. He was just sitting there on the couch.”

Nick nodded. “The TV wasn’t on?”

“Yeah, it was on.” Amanda took his wine glass and had a small drink. “It goes down smooth, doesn’t it?”

“See, he needs to stop watching television.” Nick had some wine then he gave the glass back to Amanda. “When I was a kid I had a paper route. He should get a paper route. That would take the weight off of him.”

“They don’t let kids deliver papers anymore,” Amanda said. She finished the wine.

“They should.”

“Did you lose weight delivering papers?”

“He’ll never meet a girl looking like that,” Nick said. He got up from the table and went over to the mantle. The mantle separated the kitchen from the dining room, and it was made of black-painted wood. “Are you sure there’s no cigarettes?”

“There might be one at the bottom of my purse,” Amanda said. Nick went over to the dining room table and opened her purse. He dug around and found a wilted smoke at the bottom of the bag. “Am I right or am I right?”

“There’s only one.”

“Let’s share it.”

Nick came back into the kitchen. He took a pack of matches off of the windowsill and lit the smoke, as Amanda watched him. The dishwasher whirled and rumbled. From upstairs there came another thump, and then something that sounded like a bowling ball smacked off of the floor. Nick turned his head up toward the ceiling and then sat back down across from Amanda. He handed her the cigarette.

“I have to get ready,” she said.

“But you don’t know when they are coming over,” Nick said. “Where’s your watch?”

“It’s upstairs,” Amanda said.

“I’ll get it.” Nick got up from his chair.

“Wait. Something happened to Bobby today.”

“What happened? What?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda said. “But he was just sitting there when I came in. I think it might be the kids at school.”

Nick shook his head. “You shouldn’t feed him so much. What does Bobby need with two plates of spaghetti? And all of that bread?”

“I thought you didn’t know what he ate.”

“I know.”

“He said he was hungry,” Amanda said. “I don’t think he eats at school because of the kids.”

Suddenly Nick got angry. He thought he didn’t know why but he did. He pictured his son starving himself at school, and then coming home to raid the refrigerator, to attack the food cabinets. All that junk: the pastries, the cheese-flavored crackers and the cheese that came in a can; all of those bags of potato chips. All those bastard kids in his class. It never changed. Once when Nick was in high school this kid named Jamie Jackson got up in front of the class and started playing Duck, Duck, Goose. When he got to Nick he put his thick, black hand on Nick’s head and shouted “cow.” The whole class laughed. Nick had never wanted to kill a man until that happened. But what could he do? Jackson played Wide Receiver on the team.

“We need to take his TV away,” Nick said. “We’ll take it away until he gets that math grade up.”

Amanda had a deep pull on the cigarette. “You do it. I’m not doing that to Bobby.”

“Fine. I’ll do it now.” Nick made for the stairs.

“Here,” Amanda said. “Bobby left his notebook downstairs.” She handed it to him.

“His notebook?”

“Yeah. He was writing in it before dinner. I don’t know.”

Nick held the notebook in his hands. He looked at it. It was red and on the cover Bobby had written “Private” in thick, black marker. “I’ll see about this notebook.”

Nick pounded up the stair. He was intent to put a stop to this. He wanted to put a stop to something. He stopped at Bobby’s door and listened. There was no sound but the TV set. Nick figured he’d just go in there and unplug the thing. He’d tell Bobby that it was for his own good. It was just until he got the math grade up to a B. Nick would keep the TV in their bedroom until then. Bobby could watch his shows downstairs in the living room, only after he finished his homework.

Nick looked at Bobby’s notebook. He looked at the word “Private” written on the cover, and then he opened it. Nick’s dad used to come in his room without even knocking. Inside the notebook were little poems and stories. Bad stuff, Nick thought. It rhymed. He wondered why in the hell Bobby was writing stories and poems in a private notebook. He wished that kids still delivered papers in the morning or after school. Delivering papers would take that weight off of Bobby. Nick knew it.

On the inside cover of the notebook Bobby had written his name and Katie’s name. He gave Katie his last name. Mrs. Katie Whitman. Mrs. Katherine Whitman. It was written over and over again. Robert and Katherine Whitman. Nick cringed. It seemed like something that a girl would do. He read more. At the bottom of the inside cover Bobby wrote something else. He wrote: Bobby loves Katie but Katie could never love Bobby because Bobby is fat. Nick read it over and over. And then he read it again. Katie could never love Bobby and he knew it.

There came a loud thump from Bobby’s bedroom again, and then the sound of footsteps. Nick stiffened in the hallway. He waited but Bobby only turned the TV up and sat back down on the bed. Nick could hear the springs tense up. There was a sitcom playing. It was a television show that Nick recognized from his youth. He had loved that show once. Nick listened. He closed Bobby’s notebook and he listened. Nick put his ear to the door, and then he held a hand up to touch the cold wood. Someone on the show spoke loudly, animated. The laugh track reverberated through the door. And then Bobby laughed.

But What About A Baby?

But What About A Baby?

Art hadn’t seen Larry in a few months. It was unlike the brothers to go this long, but a lot of things got in the way. Art and Jennifer were trying again for one thing. They’d been close before, almost four weeks to be exact, until Jennifer woke up one morning in August with horrible cramps. When the blood came they knew. It disappointed Art for sure, but Jennifer took it the worst. She did nothing but cry for a week. Every time Art tried to console her she’d start crying again. She’d tell him, “Art, I had it in me but I lost it.” He tried telling her that they were in it together, but his comfort had no effect on her well-being. Art called his mother and she said to give it some time. Art called Larry and cancelled their weekly bullshit sessions over beer at The Moose. He said he had to cancel everything indefinitely. Larry told Art to do what he needed to do, that he and Denise would be there for them if they needed it. Art was thankful for this. Larry always came through for him.

“So just like that she got over it?” Larry said, sitting down with a new pitcher of beer.

“It wasn’t just like that,” Art said, pouring Larry a draft and then himself one. “It took time.”

“But she’s okay now?”

“Jen is doing fine. She wants to try again.”

“And you?”

“Sure.” Art looked around The Moose. “This place is ugly.”

Larry laughed, had some beer. “It’s always been ugly.”

“Yes. But do you remember when it didn’t bother us?”

“It still doesn’t bother me.”

“Because you don’t think about things,” Art said. He lit a cigarette but then put it out. He remembered the new smoking ban inside of bars and restaurants. “Anyway, I have Carla on my back as well.”

“I think,” Larry said. “I just don’t worry the way you do.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Art asked. He had more beer.

“I thought you ended that.”

“I did. But after Jen lost the thing I got confused and all tangled again.”

“And now what?”

“Now I have two of them on my back,” Art said.

Larry took a long pull on his beer and nodded. Someone played The Dead on the jukebox. It was the same old story in this bar. Someone always played The Dead. The joint was filled with a bunch of old castoffs from the 1960s, guys who could be Larry and Art’s father, but could never be. Their father was a conservative man. He wore ties when he didn’t have to anymore. The guys in The Moose kept their hair long and wore earrings. Larry was somewhere in the middle of this. He kept earrings and his hair was turning gray, but he kept it short. Art liked to dress like their father. Not a tie all of the time, but he enjoyed wearing them. He had a collection of ties with baseball teams and cities and famous paintings on them.

“This place really is ugly,” Art said.

“A baby,” Larry said.

“I know.”

“How soon ago was it?”

Art thought for a moment. “About four months since it happened.”

“We haven’t been out in four months?”

“Jen waited for the doctor’s okay,” Art said. “I thought she’d wait longer but here we are.”

“Have you tried again?” Larry asked. He had more beer and looked around The Moose. The bartender was huddled in the corner having a shot with a coke dealer. They were both smoking cigarettes. “It might be okay to light up now.”

“Huh?” Art said.

“A cigarette.” Art handed Larry one mechanically. “I meant you. I quit.”

“When?” Art asked, putting the new smoke in his mouth. This time he lit it and smoked without reserve.

“Last month. I didn’t want to tell you because you were going through it with Jen, but it damn near killed me. It killed me,” Larry said. He shook his head and thought about it. The Dead ended on the jukebox and a few of the guys at the bar grumbled. Sammy got up from his stool to play another. “I almost ran Denise off, I was so miserable.”

“What worked?” Art asked. He took a drag on his smoke then placed his cigarette hand underneath the table.”

“I stared at a wall for the entire day,” Larry said.

“That worked?”

“No, I got that bad.” Larry finished off his draft and poured another. The pitcher was empty. “I had to go on the patch, you see?” He pulled up a sleeve revealing a small, beige colored patch on his shoulder. “I still need the nicotine.”

“Remember when dad quit?” Art asked.

“It was while mom was pregnant with Gayle,” Larry said.

“Was it?”

“See, you don’t really remember.”

“I do. I was five back then.”

“But you don’t remember,” Larry said. “You don’t remember like I do because I was eight.”

“I remember locusts,” Art said. “There were locusts that summer.”

“Yes, there were,” Larry said. He signaled over to Kenny at the bar. Kenny grabbed another pitcher and began filling it, as another Dead song came on the jukebox. “Do you remember playing with Kurt and his cousin Samantha?”

“Of course I remember Kurt,” Art said. “Kurt was my friend.”

“And Samantha?” Larry asked. He got up to get the new pitcher of beer from Kenny then came back. “Do you remember Samantha?”

“Where were we living?” Art asked. He took a last pull on his smoke then put it out on the floor.

“Buffalo,” Larry said, pouring them more beer.

“It was that year?”

“Around that year.”

“I think I remember Samantha.”

“You do or you don’t,” Larry said.

“I was five. I remember her.” Art had some beer. “What does this have to do with Gayle or dad’s smoking? What does this have to do with them?”

“Mom was miserable that year. She never wanted to leave Cleveland.” Larry picked up Art’s pack of smokes and fondled it before putting it down. “She didn’t do anything that year but cry and fight with dad. Dad took that job in Buffalo and we moved there.”

“I remember.”

“She was miserable and we moved there. She did nothing but cry. She cried and we watched television together most of that summer.”

“Where was I?” Art asked.

“You were five,” Larry said, having some beer. “Mom had you over at Kurt’s.”

“Why weren’t you there?”

“He was your friend,” Larry said. “I came over after Samantha showed up.”

“Samantha was a brunette, right?”

“Blonde. She had short blonde hair,” Larry said.

“Just like Denise,” Art said.

“Denise dyes her hair.”

Larry had more beer. Art picked up his pack of smokes and fondled it. He took one out. “Do you mind?”

“I’ve got the patch.”

Art lit a smoke and shook the match until the sulfur smell was gone. The Dead ended on the jukebox again but this time a Hot Tuna song came on. “Does the patch really work?”

“Do you remember Samantha’s dad?” Larry asked.

“I don’t really remember Samantha,” Art said. “I was five. I remember Kurt and the locusts.”

“Samantha and her dad came to live with Kurt’s family for about a month or so. He was a strange guy do you remember?” Art shook his head. “He was really thin and had a head of shaggy hair. He wore sunglasses all of the time and had a beard with flecks of gray in it.”

Art took a drag on his smoke and looked around. “Like the guys in here?”

“He wasn’t like dad at all,” Larry said, having some more beer. He looked at Art’s pack of cigarettes. “The patch doesn’t work as well as I’d like. But it keeps Denise and I on decent terms.”

“I’m going to have to quit if Jen gets pregnant this time?” Art said.

“And Carla?”

“She doesn’t smoke.”

“Charlie,” Larry said, suddenly. “See, I didn’t think I’d remember his name. I thought I’d have to call him Samantha’s father but his name is Charlie.”

“Charlie who was nothing like dad,” Art said. He took a drag on his smoke and a long pull on his beer. “What’s with Charlie?”

“Charlie came over to our house a lot that summer after Kurt’s mom introduced him to our mom,” Larry said.

“Oh,” Art said. “He came into our house with his sunglasses and beard?”

“Yes. You see, you don’t remember,” Larry said.

“I remember...”

“...Kurt and locusts. And you think Samantha was a brunette.”

“Okay,” Art said. He finished his beer and got up. “Have it your way, bro. Tell me about Charlie.”

Art went to the bathroom as the Hot Tuna song was ending. Larry sat there and had some more beer. He touched Art’s pack of cigarettes and then rubbed the patch underneath his sleeve. On the television there was a hockey game on. Larry had hated hockey ever since Buffalo. He pulled out his cell phone and checked the messages. There was one from Art that he never listened to, and another three from Denise. Larry had more beer and decided to check them later.

“Okay, so tell me about this Charlie,” Art said, sitting down.

Larry poured them both some more beer. “Mom was miserable that year.”

“I know. Because dad moved us to Buffalo.”

“She was miserable before then as well,” Larry said.

“But why?”

“Charlie made mom laugh. I remember once we were all in Kurt’s yard with the locusts signing and Samantha did that belly flop on the Slip’n’Slide.”

Art’s eyes lit up. “I remember that! She was a brunette!”

“No, no, you’re thinking of someone else,” Larry said. “You were only five.” Art nodded and fumbled with his cigarette pack. “Oh, let me have one of those, for Christ’s sake.”

“But Denise,” Art began.

“She won’t know,” Larry said. Art gave him a cigarette and offered a light. Larry declined. He just held on to the smoke and listened as Tom Petty played on the jukebox now. “She won’t have a clue.”

“Carla wants me to quit smoking,” Art said. “She’s always on me.”

“But what does she matter?” Larry asked.

“Come on and tell me about funny Charlie.”

Larry coughed and had some more beer. He held onto the cigarette. “Samantha did that big belly flop on the Slip’n’Slide. Remember that Kurt’s mom wasn’t home and we weren’t supposed to be in the yard when she wasn’t there. Charlie was watching us but he wasn’t there.”

“Where was he?” Art asked.

Larry gave him a look. “Where do you think he was?”

“No. Funny Charlie was with mom?”

“I don’t know what they were doing,” Larry said. He had more beer. He put the cigarette in his mouth but did not light it. Then he took it out. Art watched him the whole time. “I went next door. I went home to get Charlie because Samantha did that belly flop on the Slip’n’Slide and she was crying.”

“What did you see?” Art asked. He had more beer. Larry said nothing but drank his draft. “Jesus Christ, tell me. What were mom and funny Charlie doing?”

“They were sitting at a table,” Larry said.

Art fell back in his seat. “Oh. That’s all?”

“You were too young, you don’t remember. They were sitting at a table. Mom was crying but she was laughing at the same time. Charlie had his sunglasses on but you could see that his face was red too.” Larry had more beer. He fondled the smoke. “Hey, give me a light, okay?”

“Can you smoke that with the patch?” Art asked.

“I don’t know.” Larry rolled up his sleeve and took the patch off of his arm. “Give me a light, okay?”

Art gave Larry a light. Larry sucked in on the smoke. He took a deep drag and then chased it with some beer. “Be careful,” Art said.

“They were sitting at a table laughing and crying,” Larry continued. “Mom and funny Charlie.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Larry said. “And when I came in the door they acted like nothing had happened.”

“Because nothing did happen,” Art said, pouring the last of the new pitcher. “Nothing happened.”

“You don’t remember,” Larry said. “You were only five.”

“Okay, smart ass. What happened?”

“We moved back to Cleveland for one thing,” Larry said. “Dad put in his notice with the new job after the school year and was able to get back into the place he used to work. After we got back mom got pregnant with Gayle.”

“And dad quit smoking!” Art nearly shouted. “See, I do remember some things!”

“Yes. Dad quit smoking after we moved back to Cleveland.”

“Have you talked to Gayle lately?” Art asked.

“No. Have you?”

“She and Regis are trying too.”

“That’s good,” Larry said.

“What happened to Samantha? And good old funny Charlie?” Art asked.

“I don’t know,” Larry said. He took another deep pull on his smoke and then his phone rang. It was Denise. “I have to take this.”

Larry got up and went outside the bar. Art lit another cigarette and tried to remember that year in Buffalo. He couldn’t picture funny Charlie and he was still set on Samantha being a brunette. Mom was miserable that whole year, he thought, only Art didn’t remember misery. He just remembered Kurt and the locusts. The Tom Petty song ended and suddenly the bar was quiet. Larry came back in looking green.

“Is it Denise?” Art asked.

“No. The cigarette is making me sick,” Larry said. “I shouldn’t have.”

“We should go,” Art said, taking the last of his draft.

“But what are you going to do?” Larry asked.

“Something always happens,” Art said.

The brothers said goodbye in the parking lot. They promised to meet next week for another couple rounds, or the week after if something got in the way. Larry went over to his car and just stood there for a few moments. To Art he still looked green. Art waited for Larry to open his door and pull out before he made a move. Then he walked over to his car and got inside.

The whole ride home he thought about his mother and funny Charlie. He thought about what Larry saw that day in the window, laughing and crying and holding hands. Art tried to imagine himself in Larry’s place. He tried to imagine what he would’ve seen had he been the one who’d come home to get Charlie instead of Larry. He imagined coming home and stepping up to the window, seeing his mother somewhere between grief and joy. He pictured Charlie. Sunglasses and a beard flecked with gray. Art knew he wasn’t picturing the real Charlie, but just an amalgamation of all of the guys in The Moose. Charlie was nothing like their father. Art imagined being the one to come upon that scene, laughter and tears, and then the weight of it hit him like a ton of bricks. He wished he could remember more.

The living room was dark when Art got home, but the television was on. Jennifer was watching that show again, the one that Art hated. That was why he picked Wednesday nights to go out with Larry. He picked that night because he wouldn’t have to stay home with Jen and that goddamned show. He picked that night because Carla worked Wednesday nights. Art thought about Carla and his mother and funny Charlie. Then he got himself a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Hey,” Jen said, coming into the kitchen. She was wearing a burgundy robe that went just above the knees. He long, black hair looked tussled, as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Art drank his beer and watched his wife, trying his hardest to suppress all desire. “How was it?”

“It was fine,” Art said.

“How was Larry?”

“Larry quit smoking,” Art said. He took another pull on his beer. He finished it and then went into the fridge for another one. Art took a large pull on that beer as well.”

“Careful,” Jen said. And then she smiled devilishly. “Don’t get too, too drunk. Someone is ovulating tonight.”

Art pulled the beer away from his mouth. A sickness welled deep inside of him. Something was coming up, bile, or beer, or something else. He was beginning to remember. Art was beginning to remember all of it. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Not that. Not tonight.”

“But what about a baby?” Jen asked. “What are we going to do about a baby?”

A Knock on the Door

A Knock on the Door

There was a knock on the door.

Marie had been in the bathroom the whole time. There was a knock on the door, and then someone tried to push it open. She’d been in there before she heard the shots. Marcel had cut her break short, and she had to go. She told Dara that she had to go. Dara said to go, that she’d cover Marie’s tables. So she went. Marie got in the bathroom and sat on the toilet. She’d just finished going and was thinking about her next paycheck, looking down at an old pair of underwear when the first three shots came. They came quick. Bam. Bam. Bam. And then there was silence. Then there was screaming. Dara. Maybe someone else. Marie was sure it was a woman’s voice. Then another two shots came. Bam. Bam. And then the silence was deafening.

Then there was a knock on the door. Someone tried to open it, but of course it was locked. They tried to push it open but it wouldn’t budge. Marie did her best to stay stone silent. She didn’t even want to breathe. She heard them talking outside the door. One of them asked who was in there, as if they’d know if she told them. One of them pushed on the door again. Marie huddled into herself. She felt embarrassed more than scared. What if they knocked in the door, and she was still sitting there with those old underwear around her ankles? What if she died like that? Old underwear wrapped around her tired ankles. Marie didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything. Was that Dara who screamed?

There was a knock on the door. They told Marie they wouldn’t hurt her if she opened up. They told her all they wanted was the money. Marie thought that it was odd that they didn’t just take the money and go. After all, she hadn’t seen them. She’d been in the bathroom because she had to go. And if she didn’t see them then she couldn’t identify them. Why would she even come out of the bathroom with them still there? Marie resolved that she wasn’t coming out of the bathroom until she heard sirens and a cop shoved his badge underneath the door. That’s when she’d come out. Then she’d find Marcel and Dara. She’d tell the cops she didn’t see a damned thing, and then she’d get the hell out of that restaurant and never come back. She’d tell Davis it was time to get off of his ass and go find a job, bad economy or not. She was staying home with the kids now. Marie would say and do all of those things once she got outside the bathroom door. She knew for sure that she would.

There was a knock on the door. Marie knew that she could wait it out.

The Whore of Calcutta

The Whore of Calcutta

Bob missed the express train home. He sat on a small wooden bench on the platform and took out a book. No point in being pissed off, he thought. She wouldn’t be there again tonight anyway. It had been like this for two weeks ever since Anne took that secretarial job. Life was late nights and more late nights, dinner out of a box, and going to bed alone. Bob hated Anne’s new job. Anne told him too bad. She said that with the economy being what it was, he had no right to hate her job. There were millions of people who would be envious for her job, or hadn’t he watched the news, read a paper, lately. Maybe Bob should work a little bit harder at getting a job for himself.

Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. Bob had wasted six months of his life on a fruitless job search. He’d wasted months waking up at five or six, having two cursory cups of coffee, and then hitting the online job banks for something, anything. There wasn’t anything. Nothing but a trail of jobs in the finance sector that about ten to eleven other qualified, most times better qualified, people all clamored for at the same time. Plus Bob was bad at interviews. He sweated a lot, stuttered, asked the interviewer to repeat certain questions over and over again because he sat there worrying about how much he was sweating and stuttering. It was a horror to interview in his eyes. That was one of the reasons why Bob kept with Harrison & Whitman even though the work was terrible, and the hours were long. How they were long? It was less than a year ago that Anne was in his position, waiting up until odd hours, cooking dinner alone, and ultimately going to bed by herself. Now the job was gone. Now it was his turn to wait.

Bob hated Anne’s boss, Dale, as well. When he saw Anne it was Dale this and Dale that. Dale has an apartment on the Upper West Side. Dale wants me to get a Blackberry. Dale eats lobster every Saturday night. We should get lobster sometime, Bob. It’s been since the beach since I had a lobster. Bob pictured Dale often. He imagined him as some tall, blonde, muscular type; one of the ones you see running on a treadmill on a Friday night in the window of one of those overpriced gyms, after you’ve just shoved down a plate of wings with a pitcher of beer. He bet Dale told Anne all about the gym. It made Bob jealous. Anne wasn’t the youngest thing out there, but she was still a good-looking woman. Anne had kept herself in decent shape by walking and eating like a bird. She still had that long, jet-black Italian hair and those big almond-shaped eyes. Bob often told her that she looked like that actress from that television show everyone was going nuts about on cable. Anne blushed when he told her this.

Bob heard the train come rumbling down the track. He put his book back in his bag and then stood on the platform and waited. He’d done nothing that day except wander around the museum again, and have a few beers over at Muldoon’s. Muldoon’s was a force of habit. That’s where Bob used to go to unwind after a day at Harrison & Whitman’s. He went for happy hour and to talk with his colleagues and the blonde bartender from Ireland. He loved hearing her accent, the way she joked around with all of the other suits getting their fix of booze on the cheap, before going home to face the hell of their domestic life. Bob had kissed her once, briefly. It happened during the office’s Christmas party at Muldoon’s. It happened right by the women’s bathroom. She walked out and made a joke, something about office drunks, and Bob just planted one on her. He thought she liked it. After all, the woman did smile at him all of the time. She didn’t really like it, however, and soon after the kiss, Bob went home to Anne.

He took his book out on the train and stared at it. Bob could never remember where he was at in the thing. It was some book about the French and Indian War, written by some authority on the subject. Bob knew nothing about the French and Indian War, and decided that with Anne gone so often maybe he’d learn something about something. But it was hard reading the book. It was hard keeping up with forts and generals, and what England was doing to France, how the American Colonies fit it and such. The book was more trouble than it was worth. It was hard to lug around too. Bob thought maybe he’d just leave it on a seat on this train, let someone else take up the burden of history, but he decided against it. The book had been a gift from Anne, something to get Bob motivated toward a goal, any kind of goal.

At Atlantic the train became packed with passengers transferring. An old woman got on lugging one of those metal carts. It was full of plastic grocery bags. Bob only had another three stops to go, so he gave up the seat to the woman. She didn’t even say thanks but grumbled something, and sat her fat ass down on his warm seat. Then there was Bob pressed up against the rest of humanity like a goddamned sardine. Most days he couldn’t believe this was one of the biggest cities in the world. It felt like Calcutta, riding on packed trains like this. It felt like being a passenger in the Third World. Anne hated when Bob used to come home yelling about the trains. She’d fix him a drink and tell him to forget it. Bob thought Anne was nuts. How can you just forget a constant indignity like the rush hour train? When Anne got her secretarial job she came home raving about the trains. Bob would pour her a drink as she went off about how the city had the best public transportation in all of America. When Bob remarked that Anne took the train during off-peak hours she said nothing, started in talking about Dale.

“This is something,” an old man said to Bob. Bob looked at the man. He was barely hanging on to his pole; he was so short and shriveled. All around them sat younger people with their noses buried in electronic books or in digital phones, playing useless digital games. Not one of them could give up a seat to the old man? Bob looked over at the old lady he’d given up his seat to. She was already asleep.

“This is hell,” Bob said back to the old man. “This is what it’s like in Calcutta.”

A tall redhead gave Bob a dirty look after he said the bit about Calcutta. Christ, he thought, another one of those PC types. They make the world so difficult sometimes; you have to watch what you say even amongst the salivating masses. He couldn’t stand people like that, these vegan, yoga types. He couldn’t stand uppity bitches who had nothing better to get angry about other than the abuse of farm animals or which belabored country we weren’t helping out this week. People needed help in America, Bob thought. He gave her a look back. He smiled smugly and raised an eyebrow. He winked at her. Yeah, baby, Bob thought. I’m one of those types. The redhead turned away in disgust.

Then an idea came to him after the next stop. Bob inched a little bit closer to the redhead, as they made their way toward his station. Bob began breathing heavily, blowing his hot breath on the woman’s neck. She tried not paying attention to him, keeping her nose buried in some drab magazine, but Bob knew he was getting to her. How could he not? Blowing hot breath on her neck. A couple of times she brushed the blow of wind away, as if it were a bug or something. She tried inching forward but there was nowhere to go. She had no room to look back, that’s how close Bob had gotten to her. She was his captive, his little whore of Calcutta.

When the train reached the next station, Bob hesitated just a second. The doors on the train opened and before anyone could make a move, he reached out and grabbed a handful of the redhead’s ass. It was fit and bony, but Bob got a nice chunk of it. The woman screamed, tried to twirl around but there still wasn’t enough room, what, with the rush of people heading toward the exit doors. Bob held on, pinched again, and then turned to head out of the train doors just as the redhead was able to spin around.

“Hey!” was all she screamed, as the influx of people getting on the train stopped her from saying any more.

“See ya!” Bob shouted, standing on the platform. He waved at the redhead as the doors closed. She gave him one last angry look, before the train barreled out of the station and down into the dark depths of the tunnel. Bob stood there and watched it until the thing was gone.

He was one stop away from where he should’ve gotten off the train, but it was worth it just to see the look on that woman’s face. His little whore of Calcutta. Bob laughed as he walked along the crowded evening street. He stopped in a bar, not his regular one, and had a couple of beers with a hamburger, as the evening news played on a huge television in the corner of the room. Bob ate the burger voraciously. He was happy that it didn’t come out of a box. When he was done the bartender took his plate away with a smile. She was another blonde. Bob imagined kissing her too, but decided to have a third beer instead.

It wasn’t a bad walk home. Winter was coming again, and the evenings were getting his kind of cold. Most people bundled up in this weather, but not Bob. Bob could go deep into December before he had to pull out the winter coat and hat. Sometimes he made it to January, he thought, stopping to look at sundry items in the many stores that lined the street. Maybe he’d pick up a little something for Anne, like a bottle of wine for when she got home. Yes, Bob thought. He went into a liquor store and bought a big bottle of red, enough for the two of them to get silly on.

There were voices in the apartment. Bob could hear them from down the hall. There was chatter and then laughter. A male voice he didn’t recognize was raised in the most dramatic fashion. What the hell? Bob thought. He could smell food cooking too, one of the dishes that Anne used to make before she got the job. Bob took in a huge huff of the smell and then reached into his pants to dig for his keys. But as soon as they dangled in the lock, the door opened. Anne saw him and smiled.

“Hey,” she said.

“I got the wine,” Bob said. “I thought you’d be working late.”

He stepped inside the apartment. In the kitchen was a short, balding man with a salt and pepper colored goatee. Bob eyed him and then scanned the living room. Sitting on his couch, on his seat, was the redhead from the train. She was drinking a glass of his good bourbon, watching the evening news on his television set. Bob gave her a dumb smile, which the redhead met with a dark glare. She put her glass of bourbon down and got off of the couch.

“Bob, this is Dale,” Anne said, directing Bob toward the bald man. Bob shook his hand but watched in the living room as the redhead reached for her coat.

“Yes,” Bob said, putting the wine on the kitchen table. Then the three of them watched as the redhead put on her coat and reached for her purse.

“And that’s Linda,” Anne said, an awkward look on her face. Bob had never heard about Linda. She put her purse on her shoulder and began walking toward them.

“Hello,” Bob said to the advancing woman.

“We were going to work from home tonight, if you don’t mind,” Anne said.

Autograph Session

Autograph Session

Frankie’s old man pulled the car over by Gate C, which was just about at left field, and not even close to Gate A, which was where everyone seemed to be getting into the stadium on that particular day.

“I’ll pick you up here in a couple of hours,” he said.

Frankie looked at the short distance ahead of him, at packs of kids and their fathers all heading toward Gate A, the proper gate. “You can’t pull up a little bit more.”

Frankie’s dad surveyed the scene. Lines of cars with other fathers dropping their kids off, a mess of traffic that was sure to delay his getting over to Sal’s for an early round. At least from Gate C his old man could back the car up a little bit and head right down Spring Way without getting caught in any of that miserable shit. “No.”

“Fine,” Frankie said. He grabbed his satchel and go out of the car.

“Two hours.”

“Gate C.” Then his old man backed up the car, cut it quickly right, honked once, and was gone down the lonely, narrow street. “Lousy drunk.” Frankie wasn’t sure if this was true or not, if his old man was, in fact, a lousy drunk, but he’d certainly heard his mother call his dad one enough to believe there might be some level of truth to the statement.

Frankie stopped over by a vacant hot dog stand, for no vendor felt that being stationed up at Gate C, left field entrance, was worth his time on a day like this, and checked his satchel. Three National League issue baseballs. Check. A color 8x10 photo of Roberto Morris going deep on a Rawlings. Check. One glossy Ticket to the Crusaders All-Day Autograph Bash. Check. Frankie put it all back in the satchel and nodded proudly. He’d been waiting months for this. Crusaders All-Day Autograph Bash. It happened once a year. All the Crusader players sat in groups of three around the stadium, and fans lined up to get autographs and their pictures taken with their favorites.

Frankie had one favorite, Roberto Morris, AKA, Bobby Mo. Bobby Mo was the Crusaders to Frankie. The lone hero on a team that was destined to lose ninety games this season, for the third straight year. Bobby Mo had a .380 batting average at the All-Star break, and people were already throwing his name around with Teddy Ballgame, and the immortal mark of .400. He’d just made a splash at the big game in New York last week, going 3-4, and hitting in the final three runs on the deepest triple anyone had ever seen on television. Of course all the television announcers could talk about was how Bobby Mo’s free agent season was coming up, and that chances were good that triple was the first in a long line of big moments for him in New York. Screw that, Frankie thought. Bobby Mo came up with the Crusaders. He defined the Crusaders. This town wouldn’t be shit without Bobby Mo.

Of course, Frankie’s old man hated Bobby Mo. He called him a hot dog; said Bobby didn’t hustle for the ball out there in right field. Frankie’s old man said that Bobby threw like a girl, and wasn’t worth all the money those goddamned owners were going to throw at him once the season was over and he realized that he could get out of this shit town for a brighter skyline. It pissed Frankie off to hear this, so much so that he quit watching the games with his old man. He’d go down to Mickey’s house and together they’d watch the games with Mickey’s old man, a guy who loved Bobby Mo, and could appreciate a .380 batting average in July. Mickey’s dad said that Bobby’s arm was average for right field, and that some girls threw an awful lot harder than we fellows thought. Frankie’s dad said that Mickey’s dad probably threw like a girl too.

Frankie made his way toward Gate A, and the throngs of people working to get in. He felt the baseballs in his satchel, and wished that he didn’t have to do this alone. Mickey was supposed to come. It was supposed to be the two of them, but Mickey’s goddamned mother had to go into labor that morning, and Mickey’s grandmother had to be in town to stop him from going. One of the baseballs was for Mickey, for sure. The other was for Mickey’s dad. Frankie already had a shiny new ball holder at home for his baseball. It came with an extra slot for a baseball card as well. Frankie had already selected the card; Bobby Mo’s rookie card. Now all he needed was that third ball signed. The glossy 8x10 was going on his wall of fame, third wall in the room, covered with Crusader pennants and used game tickets. The Bobby Mo photo would be the centerpiece.

“You got your ticket, kid,” the usher at Gate A asked.

“Um.” Frankie fumbled around in his atchel and pulled out the ticket. It was only a little bit bent. “Here.” The usher scanned it and handed it back. Then he sent Frankie through the gate with the other excited masses.

It was like being at a regular Crusaders game, Frankie thought. All of the concessions were open. You could smell hot dogs and popcorn, and even some stale beer. The team gift shop was open and there were tons of people inside, buying souvenirs, and getting last minute things for the players to sign. Frankie walked over toward a row of box seats, and looked out onto the field. He sighed. The field looked beautiful and green, like a real diamond out there. The scoreboard even looked better from this vantage point.

Frankie looked to right field and imagined Bobby Mo firing one in to home plate. He cringed. Well, at least he could picture Bobby Mo lobbing one to the cut-off man at second. Then he touched one of the dark, plastic seats in front of him. He never got to sit in the box seats. They were too expensive his old man said. When they went to the game they sat in the nosebleeds and Frankie’s old man bought him a hot dog and a soda, and sucked down three beers for himself with a thing of nachos. Just once Frankie would’ve forgone the six-dollar hot dog and three-dollar soda, for a chance to sit so close to the action. He would’ve gladly eaten at home.

Then his cell phone rang. “You lucky bastard,” Mickey said.

“I know,” Frankie answered, still looking around the place with awe. “I wish your gram would’ve let you come.”

“I told you not to tell her your dad was driving.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing,” Mickey said. “Anyway you still got my ball?”

“Yep.”

“Get him to sign it on the sweet spot.”

“No doubt.”

Mickey sighed. “Bobby Mo written right on the sweet spot.”

“You’re goddamned right about that,” Frankie said, trying to sound like his old man.

“Are you getting a picture with him?”

“I don’t have anyone to take my picture. That was your job.”

“Damn,” Mickey said.

“How’s your mom?” Frankie asked.

“Who cares?” Then Mickey’s grandmother began yelling in the background. “I have to go.”
Frankie hung up the phone and looked around the stadium, trying to figure out where the players were. Around the Taco Hut he found the first group of them: Charlie Grissom, Mark Presley, and fireball relief pitcher Neal Rivera. Charlie Grissom was the big stud rookie who’d just come up in May. The sportswriters called him the future of the franchise. He was currently batting about .235, and had yet to knock one out of the park. Presley was good, and Rivera had been good in his day. Frankie liked them all as much as he liked all the Crusaders, but Grissom, Presley, and Rivera were no Bobby Mo. No one was Bobby Mo. Frankie looked further in the distance, at another batch of players, but could make out whom they were. Finally an usher walked by. Frankie grabbed his arm, and the guy gave him a gruff brush.

“Excuse me,” Frankie called to him.

“What, kid?”

“Where’s Bobby Mo?”

The usher groaned then pulled a sheet of paper out of his back pocket, examining it as if it contained vital information. Frankie knew that it did. “He’s down that way.” The usher pointed in the opposite direction of the Taco Hut. “Down toward Left Field.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You shoulda used Gate C.”

“Shit,” Frankie said to himself. He began the long walk back toward Gate C.

There was a huge line. Of course there was. You couldn’t even see where the players were sitting. The line was filled with guys like himself, boys carrying satchels full of memorabilia, and old men with big, graying caterpillar moustaches, sports merchandise peddlers, holding stacks of glossy 8x10s. They all smelled of cheap cigars and beer. Last year one of the peddlers tried to pay Frankie and Mickey to go into lines, and get some of the stuff signed, but they refused because of all the security guards standing around. There wasn’t even enough time for themselves to get autographs, even with Bobby Mo missing the big session due to a groin injury.
Frankie stood on this toes and craned his neck. In the deep distance, he could see him. Bobby Mo was sitting on the left side of the table, signing things, and talking to a guy standing to his right. The guy was wearing a suit, had sunglasses on, and his gray hair was slicked back. It was Sean Horton, the big sports agent. Everyone knew about him. He was the agent for most of the big stars in the game. Frankie looked at Horton talking to Bobby Mo and then into his cell phone, and a small surge of hatred well up inside of him. Frankie’s old man thought that Horton was a genius. He said Horton was going to get Bobby Mo out of the city by hook or crook next season. He had it all worked out on the down low with one of those teams in New York. If only something could be done about Sean Horton, Frankie thought.

“Are you a big Bobby Mo fan?” some kid asked. Frankie took his hateful gaze away from Sean Horton, and looked at the kid standing in front of him in line. He was some fat loser with blonde hair and glasses that were too small for his face. He had a replica Bobby Mo jersey on. The jersey didn’t even fit him right.

“Yeah,” Frankie said, hesitantly.

“What do you have?” the kid asked, trying to look down into Frankie’s satchel.

“Some balls and stuff.”

The kid nodded. He was holding a replica Crusaders helmet, so Frankie didn’t bother asking him what he was getting signed. “They’re only signing like one thing.”

“Bullshit,” Frankie said.

The kid’s eyes widened like he never heard the word before. “No, it’s true. My brother got Charlie Grissom’s autograph, and the guy before him had like a stack of things to sign, and they wouldn’t let him.”

“That’s because he’s one of those sports merchandise guys,” Frankie said. “They never let those guys get more than one thing signed. We’re just kids.”

“Well, I’m just telling you what my brother said,” the kid said.

“Well, I don’t care what your brother said.”

Frankie turned away from the fat kid and looked back up toward Bobby Mo. He was still signing away and talking to Sean Horton. This line will take forever, Frankie thought. He wanted to throw down his stuff and shout at the people around him, get things moving a little bit. He hated waiting. Waiting was all that Frankie did. He waited for his mother to get home from work to make dinner. He waited for his old man to finish dinner, before he’d toss him a few pop flies in the backyard. He waited for Mickey, waited countless hours for Mickey, to get done digesting food before they could play wiffle ball in the street. He waited until almost seven every night for the Crusaders game to come on, and for the announcer Jim Farrington to say, “Sounds like some hits to me,” when Bobby Mo came to bat. Life was one big, goddamned wait to Frankie. His old man told him to get used to it. He said get used to waiting and back pain, whatever that meant.
Then he heard shouts behind him. Frankie looked back. Some younger kids were crying and people were shouting at a small pack of ushers.

“What’s going on?” Frankie asked the fat kid.

“They closed off the line,” he said. “Sucks.”

Frankie breathed in deeply, suddenly happy for his long wait in line. “No kidding.”

It took a long time, over an hour, and there’d be no time to get anyone else’s autograph before his old man was waiting back at Gate C, but Frankie didn’t care. He was less than four people away from his hero. He looked at Bobby Mo. Bobby looked bigger in person than he did on television. The navy colored short-sleeve shirt that he was wearing made his muscles bulge. Frankie wanted muscles like that. He and Mickey spent hours lifting weights in his basement, and then holding a baseball bat the way that Bobby Mo did, taking swings, pretending to knock the stuffing off of a Rawlings. Mickey had even perfected doing that thing Bobby Mo did whenever he missed a ball. Bobby Mo would walk out of the batter’s box, clasp the bat with both hands, take in a deep breath and look up at the sky as if praying to God, before lighly tapping his helmet with the bat and stepping back in the box. Mickey had it down pat. Frankie always missed the intake of breath, so his Bobby Mo was less than perfect.

He was next. The fat kid stepped up to the table, and set his helmet down. Bobby Mo didn’t even look at it, as he signed. He kept his head turned toward Sean Horton, talking to him in between Horton’s cell phone call. The fat kid kept trying to talk to Bobby, but Bobby would answer him. He spoke only to Horton. Bobby Mo won’t do this. Bobby Mo won’t pay that. Bobby Mo won’t play there next season, unless they’re serious about winning. Frankie heard all of this talk and his heart dropped. But then he thought maybe the fat kid was just a drag. Bobby Mo better be getting paid that, or they can find someone else.

The fat kid was gone. Frankie took in a deep breath, the way Bobby Mo did it, and stepped up to the table. He figured he’d ask Bobby about his .380 batting average and what it felt like chasing Teddy Ballgame. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the first ball. Bobby Mo took it without looking at him, and signed that ball underneath the table. Frankie couldn’t see where he signed the thing.

“Bobby Mo wants at least a mil,” Bobby Mo said to Horton while he signed Frankie’s ball under the table. Horton turned away from his phone and nodded. “I’m serious, Sean.”

“Mr. Morris,” Frankie started. But Bobby Mo didn’t even acknowledge him.

He gave the ball back to Frankie. Actually Bobby Mo set it on the table and let it roll. Frankie grabbed the ball and looked at it. He hadn’t even signed it on the sweet spot, and the signature was smudged. Damn it, Frankie thought. His heart raced. He could feel the sweat collecting underneath his Crusader’s hat. Bobby Mo wants at least a mil. Quickly he grabbed his second baseball and tried to hand it to his idol.

“Bobby,” Frankie started again.

“Kid,” an usher said. It was a woman, some tall, lanky chick. It felt like she came out of nowhere. “The players can only sign one thing.”

“But,” Frankie looked at Bobby Mo for some help, but Bobby Mo was asking Sean Horton about his car commercial deal. “I have some more stuff.”

“Everyone has more stuff,” the usher said. “One item per person.” And then she pointed at the huge line behind Frankie as if to get her point across.

“Can’t I just to one more thing?” Frankie asked. The ball for Mickey, or maybe the glossy 8x10. Again he appealed to Bobby Mo, but he was talking to Sean Horton about his deal with Pepsi.

“No,” the usher said. “There’s still time to get someone else’s autograph. How about Charlie Grissom?”

“I..”

“Come on, kid,” another usher said, some pimple-faced college student this time, taking Frankie by the arm and pulling him out of the line.

Frankie sulked up against a wall. He watched Bobby Mo sign for a few more minutes, stupefied, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. One goddamned item? But it was true. Nearly every person that came up after him had to be told the same thing. Kids with baseball cards and pictures were turned away after one signature. Sports peddlers were berated by the ushers, and escorted promptly out of line by security guards if they got too loud. Sean Horton even made it a point to interrupt one of his phone calls to yell at a guy. Bobby Mo didn’t say anything to anybody except Horton. He didn’t even say anything to the blonde usher when she handed him a cup of water. He just kept on saying Bobby Mo this and Bobby Mo that. Frankie’s world felt crushed. He looked at his one signed baseball, the smudged signature that was not even on the sweet spot, tossed it in his satchel, and he headed out of Gate C.

There was a garbage can right by the unused hot dog vending cart. Frankie opened his satchel and took out the glossy 8x10. He took one last look at Bobby Mo going psycho on a Rawlings before he ripped the picture and tossed it into the trash. Then he took the two unsigned baseballs and threw them away as well. Lastly he came to the signed baseball, the tainted jewel that had a ball holder waiting for it at home. Frankie looked at the signature. It didn’t even look like Bobby Mo’s signature, at least not the way he wrote his name on all of the balls that they had for sale at the sports store in the mall. Tears welled in Frankie’s eyes. He brushed them away, feeling like a fool. He was just about to throw the signed baseball in the garbage can when he heard his old man’s horn honk.

“Two hours, right on time,” his old man said, pulling up to the curb. Frankie got in the car and stared straight ahead. “So was it everything you hoped it would be?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, quietly.

“Well, let me see them.”

“It.”

“Huh?” the old man said.

“They would only let me get one thing signed.”

Frankie handed the baseball to his old man, and his dad examined it. “Didn’t even sign it on the sweet spot, did he?”

“No,” Frankie said. His old man tried to give the ball back, but Frankie wouldn’t take it. So his old man leaned over and put the ball back into the satchel. “Bobby Mo doesn’t sign on the sweet spot.”

“I see,” his old man said. Then they were silent a while, the car still idling outside of the stadium, as happy kids and their fathers walked by. Frankie breathed in deeply, the way Bobby Mo did. The whole car smelled of sweat and stale beer.

“Can we just go?” Frankie finally asked.

“Sure,” his old man said, pulling the car back out onto the street. He made a left and took them down Spring Way. “How about a burger and a Coke at Sal’s?”

“Fine,” Frankie said, quietly. He felt serious hunger pains in his belly. Or maybe it was something else.

“He still throws like a girl,” Frankie’s old man said. Frankie looked up at his old man. He wanted to be angry at him, to cry, but instead he laughed. His old man seemed shocked at first, but then he laughed too. He took off Frankie’s hat and tussled his sweaty mop of hair. Then the two of them kept on down Spring Way, until you couldn’t see the stadium anymore, just houses and houses full of people doing ordinary and common things on a summer afternoon.