Everything Matters!

by Ron Currie Jr.

  “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “And you never wanted to go there yourself? Knowing it would be gone so soon?”

  “Can’t see it all, I guess. It’s a big world.”

  Amy stares into the beer bottle. “You want to hear about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was making one of my cross-country drives,” she says after a long pause. “Maine to California. California to Maine. There were so many it’s hard to say exactly when this was. I think maybe my first year of grad school. I had decided to go the long route through the South. It ended up being like an extra day and a half of driving, as compared to my usual route. And do you know why I went so far out of my way?”

  You do not. We could tell you, but listen:

  “Because someone had told me about these flowers in Texas that I just had to see. Bluebonnets. This girl who I can’t even remember her name now. We were friends for like five minutes, until I realized what a nouveau-hippie Earth mother kook she was. Said it would change my life. And I guess my life felt like it needed changing at the time, because I went to Texas instead of just shooting straight across the plains.”

  She looks at you, eyebrows raised, waiting for a response. But you’re not sure yet what response she’s looking for, so you just say, “Okay.”

  “Right,” she says, “so there’s no way that a stupid wildflower can make driving an extra thousand miles worthwhile, right? There was no way I would end up being anything but disappointed, and probably a little embarrassed for having spent all that money on gas. Right?”

  “Probably,” you say, uncertain.

  “Okay, so I’m driving through the hills west of Austin, and I haven’t seen a single bluebonnet anywhere. Not one. There were stands of daisies and lilacs here and there, but nothing special. Certainly nothing life-changing. And I’m beginning to get a little pissed off about having come all this way for nothing.”

  Here Amy pauses. She rises from the bed, and you watch as she goes naked to the cube fridge and removes a beer of her own.

  “But then I’m on this ranch road, just newly blacktopped—you know how awesome it is to drive on a brand-new road like that,” she says, twisting off the cap and tossing it in the corner. “So I’m taking it pretty fast, and I come around this bend and crest a hill. As I reach the top this amazing panorama opens up in front of me, and the road straightens out suddenly and stretches ahead into a valley where—and this is the weird part—it goes right down into this massive lake.”

  She looks at you pointedly, and there is a deep sadness in her eyes that seems out of place. She sips her beer.

  “So I slow down because it’s such a shock, seeing this huge lake materialize out of nowhere, in a spot where it definitely has no business being. Plus I’m just stunned by the beauty of it. This gorgeous but peculiar shade of dark, dark blue. Almost purple. I’d never seen water quite like that before. I was so mesmerized I almost stopped the car altogether.”

  She pauses, drinks again. “But so you know where I’m going with this, by now.”

  You nod, empty your own beer with a long pull. “It’s not a lake at all,” you say.

  “Of course not. Because who the hell would build a road running right into this giant lake? No one. Still, the illusion is hard to shake. It persists, even though I realize how impossible it is. Until finally I get close enough that I can make out the individual flowers themselves. The bluebonnets. I’m talking millions, here. I drive until I’m surrounded to every horizon. Then I get out and just walk away from the car, into the meadow, with no idea where I’m going, or why.”

  You rise gingerly and go to the fridge again. “You want another?” you ask, and when you turn to look at her you bump your broken wrist against the fridge door.

  “No, I just opened this one,” Amy says. “Are you paying attention? Are you listening, here? Because this is where it gets all mystical, and you know better than most, Junior, that I’m a cash-and-carry kind of girl. I can count on one finger the number of times this sort of thing has happened to me.”

  “I’m paying attention,” you say through clenched teeth.

  “So I just walked away from the car for who knows how long, until when I looked back it was gone, the road was gone, and all I could see were bluebonnets everywhere. I should have been worried about getting lost, but I wasn’t. I just walked around with my palms skimming the flowers and the sharp little tips of the grass, and when I got tired I lay down, and then it was dark, and I slept for a while. Sometime during the night it started to rain, but even that didn’t drive me away. I woke up, but I stayed there and let it rain on me. I know that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Makes as much sense as anything else.”

  “It’s honestly, don’t laugh at me here or I’ll be really hurt, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like there’s a god. The sort of deep certainty you get when you have a revelation on acid, you know—that two-by-four-upside-the-head sort of epiphany? Like everything suddenly becomes absolutely clear and you wonder how in hell it took you so long to see it in the first place?”

  At this you feel, once more, the deep tenderness and affection that your heart has always reserved for only her, and you say, “Why would I laugh at you for that?”

  Amy looks at you. “Because it’s a dangerous thing these days, to talk like this,” she says. “This sort of earnestness rarely goes unpunished.”

  You think about this. “It’s a good point,” you say. “Of course I’m burying my father tomorrow, and shortly thereafter the world is going to come to a violent end. So given that, abject earnestness is probably in order.”

  “Irony is a luxury the doomed can’t afford.”

  “I’d say.” You put the beer down on the nightstand and slide your good arm under her. She rolls into you, rests her battered head in the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder.

  “I have to tell you,” Amy says, “and please don’t take this the wrong way. But I liked it better when you were crazy, and the bluebonnets were going to keep blossoming every spring until the end of time.”

  You lift a little swatch of her hair, run your fingers through, let it fall. “Fair enough,” you say.

  Rodney

  There’s one thing I never got to ask Junior about since we got back to Chicago. It’s been a year, I think. Yeah about a year, because when Dad died we were in a pennant race with Milwaukee, which I ended up missing two weeks and we lost the pennant by one game and I know some of the guys blamed me for not being there but what could I do? My dad was dead. I asked Reynolds what could I do? And he said nothing Rodney, don’t even fucking worry about those cocksuckers. Now we’re in a pennant race again, only this time with St. Louis. Pennant races happen once a year, in September. So that means it’s been a year since Dad died. And even though I seen Dad in the coffin and seen them close it up and put it in the car and take it out of the car and put it in the ground, I still wanted to ask Junior if Dad might come back. If Junior came back, maybe Dad could, too, is what I was thinking.

  But I couldn’t ask Junior because even though we’re living together again we always miss each other. When I’m in Chicago he’s always in Washington, D.C., so instead of asking him I went and asked Amy. She’s smart, maybe even smarter than Junior. She’s nice to me. I trusted her to give me a good answer.

  Except when I asked her she didn’t want to give an answer.

  Well, Rodney, I don’t know if I’m the person to talk to about this, she said.

  I trust you Amy, I said.

  Well that’s awfully nice of you, she said. She took my hand in hers, the one where part of her finger is gone, which made me think of Dad. Awfully nice, Rodney. I’m glad you trust me. Will you still trust me even if I give you an answer other than the one you want to hear?

  Yes, I said.

  Okay, she said. Because what I think you want to hear is that it’s possible your dad will come back. But the truth is he
can’t. Do you understand?

  What about Junior? I asked.

  That’s different, she said.

  How?

  She looked away and said something real quiet that I couldn’t hear. It sounded like she was angry. Then she said to me, Well the best I can explain it, Rodney, is that Junior wasn’t really dead. You just thought he was. There’s a difference.

  I understand, I said.

  Whereas your dad, she said.

  He’s really dead, I said.

  Her eyes were big and shiny. Yeah, she said. He is.

  I get it, I told her. Even though I only sort of got it. I thought for a minute and then I almost asked her to explain it better. But I looked at her eyes again and then I felt bad and I just shut up.

  But it’s still bothering me. Today the team’s in San Diego and it’s an off day so like usual once we get checked in I spend most of the day in the hotel room. We’re staying at the Hilton and like all the hotels they book us in under fake names so fans and girls won’t call us all day long. I use Ron Mexico, which is the name Gutierrez picked for me a while ago. I like it because I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico but never have. As Ron Mexico I go down to the hotel restaurant and order the sort of dinner I think someone named Ron Mexico would eat. Chimichangas and a margarita with no tequila.

  I used to have a lot of fun pretending to be the fake names I use on the road. Like sitting in a hotel restaurant in Houston and pretending that the next day I had a very dangerous flight to make in my amphibious plane to some really far-off islands, but that if I went ahead and did it then my girlfriend Desdemona would never forgive me because I had promised her no more dangerous flights to far-off islands anymore.

  Now like everything else it isn’t as much fun as it used to be. Plus it’s hard pretending I’m Ron Mexico when people keep coming up and saying Rodney could you please sign this napkin or Mr. Thibodeau would you take a picture with my son. Not that I mind doing those things.

  I take the picture and go back to eating and that’s when Reynolds comes over. I didn’t notice him at the bar because he had his back to me. He sits down real slow, making a face because his knees bother him all the time.

  What’s going on kid, he says. It’s funny that he calls me kid because I’m getting old for a ballplayer but he’s close to forty and is more a player-manager now. He only catches on day games following night games, to give Molina a rest.

  Nothing, I say. Just eating dinner.

  I thought you didn’t drink, Reynolds says.

  I don’t, I say. There’s no tequila. It’s just margarita mix and ice.

  He laughs and smells my drink. Of course. I might have guessed, he says.

  Reynolds is drunk. He always smells real strong like beer, even at games, but I can tell when he’s drunk because he talks funny like Ma used to. For some reason this makes me think about how, as much as Junior drinks, he never ever talks that way. Just out of the blue I think about this.

  Listen Rod I wanted to talk to you about something, Reynolds says.

  What is it? I ask.

  Just want to see how you’re doing, Reynolds says. He waves to the waitress and points at his empty bottle.

  I’m doing okay, I tell him.

  Because listen, I’m drunk enough that I’ll dispense with the bullshit and just say it: You’re hitting like shit, kid. I’ve watched you play ever since you came up, and I know the only time you hit like shit is when you’ve got something eating you. Unless you’ve finally lost a step.

  I haven’t lost a step, I say. Nothing hurts. I see just as good as ever. I could play another fifteen years.

  I know, Reynolds says. So why are you hitting so bad? For two months, give or take. Fifty-six games. Two hundred at bats. That’s how long you’ve been stinking it up.

  From someone else it would hurt my feelings, having them say that I stink. But I know Reynolds cares and it’s just his way of saying so. Gruff, is the word. I heard Junior use that word once talking about Dad, and that’s what Reynolds is like. He’s big and quiet and no one messes with him. Gruff. I think maybe since he’s asking me I could tell him what’s been on my mind and I could ask him the same question I asked Amy and maybe he could explain it to me so I’d get it.

  But just then the bartender says Hey everybody quiet down you’re gonna want to hear this shit. This seems weird to me because we stay in nice hotels and the help are always really polite and never swear, they’re always Mr. Mexico can I help you with your bags and Would you like another drink Mr. Mexico or perhaps something from the dessert menu.

  The restaurant gets quiet and the bartender turns the television up high enough for everyone to hear. It’s President Huckabee and I can tell right off that whatever he’s saying I won’t understand, so I turn away from the bar and while I’m waiting for President Huckabee to finish so everyone will go back to what they were doing I look at the pictures on the dessert menu.

  This is a fucking joke, right? Reynolds says.

  I hope that he’s not asking me because I have no idea if it’s a joke or not. But he’s not looking at me. Actually he’s not looking at anyone. He’s still staring at the television like everyone else.

  No one says anything for a long time. I’m getting pretty bored. Then President Huckabee is done talking and all of a sudden everyone’s got their cell phones out and they’re all making calls and the bar gets really loud with everyone talking. Reynolds is talking on his phone, too. I listen and figure out it’s his wife on the other end.

  I don’t know what this is about, Brenda, Reynolds says. He tries to tell the waitress to get another beer but her shift must be over because she puts on a fleece vest and leaves. She must be in a hurry for some reason because when she gets outside she starts running down the sidewalk past the windows. It must be a fucking hoax or something, Reynolds says into the phone.

  I look around the restaurant and I’m the only person who isn’t talking on a phone. Even the bartender’s got the phone that normally stays under the bar, and he’s talking to someone and at the same time looking up at the television screen where a different man is standing on the stage where President Huckabee was. This man is talking to reporters. Even though they have chairs the reporters are all standing and waving their hands at the man. He’s got on a yellow tie with black polka dots that I like. He looks like maybe he’s sick to his stomach.

  I don’t think so, Brenda, Reynolds says to his wife. I know. I know. Listen, I know. Let’s not get fucking hysterical here, is all I’m saying. We don’t even know what’s going on . . . I’m sure if they’re going to cancel the games and send us home they’ll tell us. Where are the kids?

  I wonder why Reynolds’ wife would think the games are going to be canceled, but I don’t ask Reynolds because he’s on the phone and I don’t want to be rude. Now I notice other people running past the windows, or else walking really fast like people do when they’re late to be somewhere. All the people outside are talking on their phones, too.

  Something’s going on, even I can tell that. I decide to go outside. I get up from the table and Reynolds waves his hand at me. I stand there waiting.

  Hold on a sec, babe, Reynolds says to his wife. He puts his hand over the phone and says Where the fuck you going?

  I was going to go for a walk, I say.

  Nah, kid, no, listen, you shouldn’t go anywhere right now. You need to get on the phone to your brother and your mother and whoever else. Let me wrap this up and I’ll explain what’s going on. Best I fucking can.

  He goes back to talking to his wife. Usually I listen to Reynolds when he tells me something, but I really don’t want to be in here anymore. All the people talking on their phones are making me nervous. What I want is to get outside and walk around. I tell Reynolds I’m going to the waterfront and he waves at me again, no, but I just walk out of the restaurant and into the lobby. For some reason the doorman’s not there, so I open the door myself.

  Normally I get lost pretty easy but we alw
ays stay at this hotel when we’re in San Diego so I know how to get to the waterfront. There are so many people I can barely move on the sidewalk. Everyone’s bumping into each other and pushing. Cars are stopped in the street and there’s a little more room there so I step down off the sidewalk and walk beside the cars. I can see the waterfront from here but it’s really slow going with all the people. Part of the reason they’re bumping into each other is they’re all talking on their cell phones and no one’s watching where they’re going. I have to keep saying excuse me. I start to think I should have waited like Reynolds said. I think about going back to the hotel restaurant but I’m already more than halfway to the waterfront and it would take even more time to go back. I just want to get away from all these people because I never liked crowds and still don’t even though I play in front of big crowds every night.

  I get to the corner and that’s when I see that all these people are coming from the convention center. There are so many people coming out that they’re starting to push all the other people on the street in the same direction, back toward the hotel, away from the waterfront. I get pushed with everyone else. A woman near me screams and falls down and I grab her arm and hold on. It’s hard to pull her up because I’m still getting pushed by all the people. She’s dragging on the ground on her knees and kicking her legs a little. You’ve got to stand up, I tell her. I dropped my phone, she says. My hand’s getting tired lady, I say. She kicks her feet against the legs of the other people and climbs out from under them and stands on her own. Her knees are bloody but she won’t get stepped on now so I let go of her arm.

  It’s a good thing she forgot about her phone because I’m about to start crying and I don’t think I can take care of anyone else. I want to get away from all these people and the pushing and shouting and the scared looks on everyone’s faces but there’s nowhere to go. I try to move towards the waterfront again but even though I’m one of the strongest guys on the team I’m not strong enough to move all these people. I get pushed past a palm tree and the first thing I think of is to grab it. I grab the trunk and it’s like that time when I was with the Boy Scouts and I got thrown out of the whitewater raft and I grabbed onto a rock and wouldn’t let go even when they were telling me I’d be okay just drift down through. The water kept grabbing at me and trying to pull me off the rock but I held on, just like now with the people moving all around me and trying to pull me along. I hold on to the trunk of the palm tree and it moves back and forth but doesn’t break. I jump up as high as I can and grab the trunk and hang there. I put my legs around the tree and climb up like a rope climb. When I get to the top I wrap my arms up and over and put my hands together to hold myself there. I hope that soon there won’t be so many people and I’ll be able to come down and go to the waterfront and watch the boats, because my arms are already getting tired. Down on the street everybody’s moving but not going anywhere, and the tree is still rocking and my arms burn and it’s like the fourth or fifth time today that I wish Dad was still here because he’d know just what to do.