by Carlos Colon
The hometown crowd cheered on, trying to charge up a Scarsdale rally as the first batter approached the plate.
Dominic clapped his hands rhythmically, beaming at his nephew on the bench. “Come on guys, you can do it!”
This would have been one of our moments; Stefanie, Dominic and me together rooting for our boy, me holding Stefanie’s hand and me breaking Dominic’s balls about something, anything (I didn’t need much). Instead I sat quietly behind them and reflected on how many moments like this I’d missed.
“Davey looks good, don’t he?” said Dominic, nudging his, sister. “Even better than his father.” Was that necessary, dumb ass, bringing me into the conversation? “And it’s unbelievable how much better he is than all these seniors that are bigger and older than him. I can see him in the majors someday.”
Stefanie didn’t reply, keeping her focus on the game. Dominic then caught on that maybe bringing me up wasn’t the smartest thing to do. He apologetically took his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You probably still miss him a lot.”
“Dominic, don’t,” replied Stefanie as the first batter popped out to short.
“Hey, I miss him, too. He was my buddy.”
I miss you too, you fat bastard.
Stefanie didn’t want to hear it. “Stop,” she ordered.
“Come on, sis, you know there’s no way he would have done those things they said in the paper. He loved you. Believe me, I know.”
“You know?” She almost laughed in his face. “Tell me, how do you know?”
“Stef, all he ever talked about was you and how much he loved you. You know that. That whole thing was some kind of set up. I’m telling you—”
“Set up?” Their voices rose but the roar from the bleachers drowned them out as the Raiders first baseman ripped into a fastball and drove it over the fence. The score was now 7-5. “I’m a grown woman, Dominic. There was no set up. It’s a fact of life. I know he loved me, but that’s what men do.”
“No, sis, that’s not true.”
“Of course it’s true. After a few years of marriage, you get a little bored. Some other woman gives you attention...”
“No, Stef, it’s not like that at all.”
“Sure it is, Dominic. Even you—”
Stefanie cut herself off.
They were temporarily distracted as the Raiders catcher hit a liner back to the pitcher for the second out. The next batter had to get on base for Davey to have a chance at bat.
The distraction was only momentary. Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Even me? What do you mean by that?”
Stefanie backed down. “Forget it.”
“No, no, tell me,” he prodded.
“No, forget it!”
“No, sis, I want to know what you meant by that.”
Stefanie gave in. “Dominic, you don’t think everyone knew about Colleen?”
Dominic turned pale. “Colleen!”
“Yes, Colleen Ryan, your old partner’s wife, you don’t think I knew? You don’t think Patti knew?”
Holy shit! I didn’t know! Who says women can’t keep a secret? Dominic was fucking Colleen Ryan??? Dominic, you animal!!!
Usually, he was quick with an answer, but not this time. All he could mutter after a moment of stunned silence was, “It wasn’t like that...”
“Oh, no? Then tell me what it was like? Was that a set up, too?”
A welcome change of the subject came when the Raiders third baseman was hit by a pitch. Davey was now going to get a chance to hit. As the tying run, he had a chance to be a hero. On the other side of the coin, if Davey made an out, the Scarsdale High School baseball season would be over.
Dominic and Stefanie cheered.
“Come on, Davey!”
“You can do it, Davey!”
Davey wasted no time. He drilled the first pitch into the right centerfield alley past the outfielders. They chased desperately after the ball as Davey rounded first and headed towards second. By the time the right fielder got to the ball, the runner ahead of Davey crossed the plate to make it 7-6. In the meantime, the bleachers were shaking with excitement as Davey sped towards third. When the cutoff throw reached the first baseman in shallow right, the Raiders third base coach signaled Davey to stop.
He didn’t listen. Thick-headed, just like his father.
The first baseman’s throw to the plate was perfect and the catcher blocked the plate beautifully, absorbing Davey’s hard slide. The catcher fell over but he had already received the throw and made the tag. The only question was whether he held on to the ball.
The crowd’s cheerful roar became a somber quiet as they waited for the umpire to make his call.
He looked down at the catcher.
The ball was still in his mitt.
The umpire threw his fist in the air.
“OUT!”
The season was over. No playoffs.
Davey got up in a rage, throwing his helmet and kicking it. (Deja-fucking-Vu) The umpire warned Davey to stop, prompting the Raiders coach to run over to calm him. Dominic also ran down from the bleachers to soothe his nephew. Stefanie slowly followed.
By the time they were out in the parking lot to head home, Davey’s tantrum subsided. Stefanie and Dominic didn’t say a word. They knew a consolation speech would only set him off again so they just walked together towards their cars. Dominic was parked next to Stefanie. Davey had ridden in with his mother.
Dominic patted Davey on the shoulder, who grunted goodbye to his uncle before going into the car and slamming the door shut. Stefanie’s eyes welled up with tears.
“Hey, don’t worry, sis. It’s only a game,” said Dominic. He then shot his nephew an angry look and spoke loud enough to be heard inside the car. “He’ll get over it!”
Stefanie shook her head and hugged her brother, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“Nah, it’s in the past. What’s happened, happened. Don’t worry about it.”
“But, to answer your question, I do. I do miss him,” she said, barely getting the words out. “I miss him every day of my life.”
Dominic hugged his sister tightly and watched her as she got into her car and drove off.
His eyes were red.
He hadn’t been sleeping much. I could see that his mind was in a jumble. But why? What was going on in that fat bastard’s head?
He then took a sudden turn and looked squarely, right into my eyes. It startled me enough to take a step back. I looked at my hands to make sure my I wasn’t exposed.
Nothing.
I looked to the ground to see if a shadow was cast from lights in the ball park. The only shadow was Dominic’s. So why did he turn and look right at me?
It was almost as if... he knew I was there.
22
Who else would live here but a nice, hard-working family? The cement steps leading up to the porch of this semi-attached duplex in the Rego Park section of Queens, have a few cracks in them, but as a whole, the house looks pretty well maintained.
Through the front window of the living room I see three lovely Puerto Rican ladies from different generations watching Telemundo on a Sony 42” flat screen. I’ve been meaning to get one of those. The bulky rear-projection monster I have is taking up way too much space in my apartment.
Two little ones are seated on the floor in front of the television, a boy and a girl. On screen is a Sabado Gigante-type variety show like Don Francisco used to have. The host on screen is ogling the tits of the salsa dancer he’s introducing about as subtly as Benny Hill used to during his skits back in the seventies.
The little girl has a broken Barbie doll. It’s the Puerto Rican Dolls of the World Collector’s Edition from about twenty years ago. From the wear and tear I figure it belonged to the girl’s mom once. The dark-haired doll is wearing a white almost bridal-like dress with a pink cummerbund belt and a matching flower in her hair. This is apparently how Mattel pictured Puerto Rican girls in t
he late nineties. I guess someone forgot to do their research and actually go to Puerto Rico. The boy looks like he’s about the same age as what I presume is his sister. Maybe they’re twins. He’s got a toy truck in his hands and is totally undistracted by the dark-haired salsa singer and her impossibly tight body suit. Just wait a few years, bud. You won’t be playing with trucks anymore.
The music kicks in and the singer starts gyrating. It reminds me of when I was fifteen years old and I had a little portable twelve-inch TV in my room. We had trouble getting UHF in the Bronx and I had to move the TV antenna around the room to get Channel 47 so I could rub one out while watching Iris Chacón shake that giant ass of hers.
On the couch, the youngest lady looks no older than sixteen. She’s probably the older sister sitting with Mami and abuelita—a lovely innocent family quietly enjoying a peaceful Saturday evening at home. I almost hate to disturb them.
Like any smart family in New York they have the front door locked. Fortunately, the loud salsa blaring from the TV will drown out the sound of me turning the doorknob past its breaking point. During my living years, I used to go around with comfortable L.L. Beans on my feet, but these days I find Reeboks (which I have on now) or Nikes to be much quieter.
The wall in the foyer is decorated with achievement plaques from the New York City Police Department. It looks like the daddy of the household is Julio Miguel Rodriguez, a respected officer of the law. I wonder if he knows Dominic.
Thankfully, Officer Rodriguez doesn’t appear to be home. Having had a policeman in the family that was also my best friend, I always had great admiration for the police and wouldn’t want one to get in my way. I don’t like to hurt the good guys. He probably does know that his trombone-playing younger brother is a lowlife, but what he probably doesn’t know is that Mr. Roberto beat the mother of two young boys into a coma a couple of nights ago.
Hello.
The collective gasp from three ladies on the couch is an expected reaction to spotting a strange man standing in their living room doorway. What I don’t want is any unexpected reactions, which is why I quickly raise my hand and calm them. I don’t really need to raise my hand, taking over their minds doesn’t require that, but I remember Obi-Wan Kanobi doing it in Star Wars and I always thought it was kind of cool.
Strangely enough, the boy with the truck and the little girl with the doll don’t seem frightened. Is it a regular occurrence for unexpected strangers to just walk in here? Anyway, it’s not my problem. But rather than take a chance of any sudden change in reaction I’ll take over their minds as well, something I normally don’t like to do to children. Extended mind control can cause permanent brain damage, but if I get this done quick I should be able to release them with no harm done.
“Everyone please just relax. I will be out of your way in just a few minutes and you can continue to watch Telemundo.” Having to step over the toys on the floor brings back memories of our living room back at our house thirty years ago. I must have stepped on a hundred Hot Wheels cars back then yelling, “Davey, pick your shit up off the floor!”.
I kneel in front of the ladies on the couch to look less threatening. Again, isn’t really necessary but it does make for easier eye contact.
I address the children’s mother first. “Hola Señora, I take it the man of the house isn’t home?” Her eyes are blank, even as she nods. “A couple of Roberto’s friends said he might be staying here tonight. Is Roberto home?”
“Bobby?”
Oh, how sweet, they call him Bobby. “Yes, Bobby.”
Her eyes drift up towards the ceiling. “Bobby’s upstairs.”
A thunderous bang!
A jolt in my temple!
Almost simultaneous!
The force of the bullet crashing through my skull and burrowing into my brain sends me flying towards the flat screen, shattering the image of the sexy salsa singer into an infinite amount of pieces.
Why didn’t I hear him? Was it the salsa? My heightened sense of hearing should be at its peak after my Buffalo Johnny session with Veronica less than a week ago. How was I not aware of his presence? Did my genetic resistance allow my pent up rage to distract me to the point of carelessness?
The horrified screams of the Rodriguez family indicate that their minds are free of my control, not surprising considering a slug has tunneled through my cerebrum and exited through my cheekbone. This is the kind of encumbrance that comes with my genetic handicap. Another of my kind would have just fed on everyone before searching the house. Me, I can’t bring myself to harm an innocent family. Why should they pay for Uncle Bobby’s barbarities? They probably don’t even want him there.
“Die, you fucking freak!” Uncle Bobby, that ship has sailed a long time ago.
How stupid can I be? A cop’s house! Cop. Gun. Simple math, what’s the matter with me? Not that the bullet’s going to kill me, but I should have considered the fact that there could have been firearms on the premises. I also should have considered that, even with the entire living room having been in a trance, someone else in another room might not have been under my control.
If I was alive, the bullet obviously would have killed me. If that didn’t do the trick, the electrical current from the circuitry of the smashed television would have been the finishing touch. If somehow I managed to survive even that, at the very least, I would have ended up with permanent brain damage. But alas I am dead. And there’s nothing more permanent than that. And right now this dead man wants blood—Puerto Rican trombone player blood!
The shock of the bullet has not only cut off the spell I had cast in the room but it also knocked out my projection, which means now Bobby and the family are treated to the sight of broken fragments of cheekbone hanging from the torn flesh below my right eye. These wounds won’t heal magically the way they do in those movies you see on TV. They’ll heal somewhat but dead skin does not regenerate the same way it does among the living. When my projection is back intact, the unsightliness will be covered up, but for now it is all out for everyone to see.
“Demonio!” shrieks abuelita. Every superstition she probably grew up with has now been confirmed. The ladies pick up the kids and flee out into street screaming.
Roberto continues to still hold out his gun, petrified as he witnesses the freak he just shot rising after taking a bullet through the brain. From the smell of the room, I think he just shit himself.
That doesn’t stop him from taking another shot.
This time I’m hit in the forehead right above the left eye. For a musician, this fucker can shoot. Shoot all you want, you son of a bitch. Do your best, or do your worst, whatever that fucking saying is. Your life is ending tonight and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Too bad I can only kill you once.
Roberto fires two more panicked shots—one hits me in the neck and another gets me in the thigh just below my balls. The impact from the bullets sets me back a couple of steps but it doesn’t stop me from moving forward, to which Roberto reacts with a helpless whimper.
That’s right, buddy, the salsa party is over.
Roberto darts out of the house, following the rest of his brother’s screaming family out into the street. If the crap from the movies were true, right now I’d transform into a bat and fly past the frightened shitbag scrambling down the block. I’d then land in front of him and turn back to human form in front of his eyes.
Like I said before, I would fucking love that!
Too bad. Instead I just have to go run after him. And we don’t have super speed, either. In fact, we don’t run any faster than humans do. Our advantage is that we don’t tire. So a human can run from us all he wants but eventually he’ll get winded. We don’t. With our non-functioning lungs, that’s never a problem. If it weren’t for the daylight, I could run straight to California without breaking stride.
The only problem I do have right now is that all of the screaming has alerted the entire neighborhood. Curious neighbors are now in front of the ho
use and a gang of young, Latino punks with baseball bats is approaching me with harmful intent.
Are you kidding me, guys?
They must be stoned out of their minds because I haven’t yet regained my human projection and they’re not even flinching at the sight of me. Maybe they think I’m made up for some kind of costume party.
What they don’t realize is that the real monster, the woman-beating trombone player, is down at the end of the street running his ass off. But looking the way I do right now, I don’t think they’re going to listen and help me with my chase, so it looks like I’m going to have to engage and kick some young Latino ass.
The first punk charges in swinging a stickball bat, which I easily catch and pull from his hands. This cues the rest of the gang to blitz and start pounding me. A couple of others, standing outside the melee, hold up their smartphones, recording the fracas on video. That’s going to be a problem. My projection still isn’t up. Even if my face is distorted to the point that it is unrecognizable as anything human, my clothes may be recognized as something that was seen worn by Jorge Sangría.
Usually pricks like these are looking for any excuse to get into some kind of free-for-all (I doubt if this is the neighborhood watch group), but tonight since I have my eyes on a different prize, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume their community spirit is sincere, which means I won’t kill them. That being said, at this moment I don’t have the time to reason or be gentle. That means some of these punks are going to get hurt.
My tightened grip on two of my attackers’ necks enables me to throw them from the pile as the rest continue to pummel me, not realizing that their punches and kicks are having no effect other than keeping me from my prey. A flurry of blows connects with each punk’s jaws sending them reeling back and knocking over one of those jackasses with the smartphone. Record that, ass wipe. I think now they’re getting idea that they’re dealing with something unusual. That’s right, fuckers, you want to take me on? Let’s go.
They haven’t exactly retreated, but it seems like they’re not too eager jump back in. Good, back off, punks. Consider yourselves lucky that—