Pitch

by William Ollie

  She had been giving her patented ‘welcome to your first day of Junior High School speech’, informing her students that they were no longer children, that from this day forward they were considered to be young adults, and would conduct themselves accordingly. Playtime was over. Now was the time to get down to the serious business of preparing themselves to become contributing members of an orderly society. After closing her little speech, she called out the roll.

  The first two students answered with, “Here.”

  The next three said, “Present.”

  Michael Ray Clanton responded by saying, “President.”

  The class laughed and giggled. Then the door opened, and in walked Gary Harbus, the self-proclaimed king of class clowns, who had laughed and joked and pulled just enough childish pranks to succeed in getting himself held back to repeat the seventh grade. Skinny as the proverbial rail, Gary Harbus had curly blonde hair, and blue eyes that looked slightly enlarged behind a pair of black-framed glasses. He had a beak of a nose, and thin lips any chicken would’ve been proud to own. Harbus was not only funny; he was funny looking. While most kids thought him to be a riot, the school’s faculty was not amused. As far as they were concerned, Gary Harbus was Public Enemy Number One. During the teacher’s conferences that had taken place at the end of summer, Vonda made it abundantly clear that she did not want Gary Harbus in any of her classes, and on her very first glance at the roster of names, she’d happily noticed the name Gary Harbus to be absent from the roll.

  “What are you doing here, Harbus?” she said, after recovering from the shock of seeing him.

  “Mrs. Mathis started havin’ a nervous breakdown or something when I reported to her homeroom, so she took me up to see Ronny Ball, and he told me to come see lucky little you.” He shrugged his shoulders and the whole class erupted with laughter.

  “Take a seat, Harbus,” Vonda said, and then instructed the class to quiet down and behave while she went up to Mr. Ball’s office.

  On the way out the door and down the hallway, laughter exploded from her classroom.

  She walked past the principal’s secretary, straight into the office, where Ron Ball was sitting behind his desk speaking into the telephone. He looked up, lifting an index finger, mouthing the words, “Just a minute.”

  When he hung up, Vonda said, “Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I want that troublemaking little asshole out of my classroom, right now.”

  Ron Ball, all elbows and sharp angles, ran a hand through his short black hair, smiling as he said, “Now, Vonda.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “I… I know, but, well, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Sally came in here screaming and crying and threatening to walk out. Please, try to understand. She had him last year, and she just won’t take him on again.”

  “Well, she flunked him. She should have to deal with his sorry ass.”

  “C’mon, Vonda. You’re stronger than that piss-ant. How bad can it be?”

  “How bad can it be?” Vonda crooked her index finger, motioning him out of his chair, and then she and the principal walked out of his office and into the hallway, down the stairs to the first floor, where, approaching Vonda’s students, they heard sounds more befitting a bar than a seventh grade classroom: laughter and cursing, and then louder laughter.

  “Fuck you, Harbus!” somebody shouted.

  “Fuck yer mama!”

  Again, loud, hysterical laughter rang out.

  Ron Ball kicked the door open and called Gary Harbus forward.

  “What’d I do?” he said.

  “I heard you cussing. You want to tell me who it was that said the F word? Other than you, I mean.”

  Harbus just stood there, grinning as Ron Ball opened Vonda’s bottom right hand desk drawer, and pulled out Old Faithful, a long handled, flat wooden paddle with holes drilled into it. He stood for a moment, smiling at Harbus before telling him to grab his ankles, which Harbus did, bending and grabbing and looking upside down through his legs, as he said, “We have got to stop meeting like this.”, drawing laughter from the class and a swing of Old Faithful from Mr. Ball. Not as hard as it could have been, but hard enough, just the same.

  “Once more, with feeling!” crowed Harbus, and once again, laughter rang out, this time twice as loud.

  And Ron Ball did as he was told—once more with feeling.

  “That enough feeling for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Harbus said, still upside down. “My ass is kinda numb right now.”

  This time, the whole class, everyone, began to howl. Even Vonda had to stifle a giggle.

  But Ron Ball was not amused, and this time he did swing as hard as he could, almost knocking Harbus face forward onto the floor.

  “Back to your seat, Harbus. Unless, of course, you have anything else you’d like to add.”

  Harbus stood up and walked back to his seat. He had plenty to add, but not now. Numb or not, his skinny little ass couldn’t take anymore of Old Faithful today.

  Vonda stood in the doorway, smiling. She’d really enjoyed watching Harbus get the stuffing whacked out of him, but she had to hand it to him: the little prick didn’t give in. He didn’t break.

  That day, Ron Ball returned Old Faithful to its home and left Vonda to her class, and Vonda went back to calling the roll. Upon arriving at the name, E.L. Davis, she said, “What does E.L. stand for, Mr. Davis?”

  Smiling, the child said, “Well, the E stands for E and the L stands for L.”

  “Mr. Davis,” Vonda said. “We do not go by initials here.”

  “Honest, Mrs. Peters, that’s my real name.”

  “That’s what it says on your birth certificate.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And if I call your parents, they’ll say?”

  “I guess they’ll say the E stands for E and the L stands for L,” E.L. said, against a backdrop of snickers and muffled laughter.

  Vonda looked at Harbus, then back at E.L. Sighing, she said, “Okay, Mr. Davis.”

  When the bell rang, Vonda told Harbus to stay behind, and as the other students left the classroom, she motioned him to her desk. “Listen, Gary, we can make this easy or hard. It’s up to you. If you’ll just try to behave, I’ll bend over backward to help you. But if you’re determined to be a smart ass, then I’ll make your life a living hell, and sooner or later I’ll make you pay… one way or another.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where’s your first class?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Ball just told me to come here.” Harbus wanted to make a wise-crack about Ronny Ball, but even he knew not to push Vonda any further today.

  “Well then, go back to Principal Ball and tell him you need to know your schedule.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Harbus said. Then he turned and walked past the students entering Vonda’s first period English class.

  Vonda’s little warning went in one ear, ping-ponging a couple of times off Harbus’ empty skull before shooting straight through and out his other ear in record time. When she asked Ron Ball about E.L.’s birth certificate, she was told his legal name was E. L. Davis. Of course, she didn’t believe it, not for a minute. But try as she would—and God knows she did try, she would not discover his real name. Some people could take such things in stride, but not Vonda. The first time bothered her. The second time annoyed her. By the sixth time, she had gotten extremely agitated. Now, after six weeks of calling out E. L. Davis, she was way beyond agitated. Vonda Peters was pissed off, and considered E. L. to be as big an ass as Gary Harbus—E.L., with his blue eyes and black hair, and that goofy-looking cowlick. The fact that he was polite and treated her with the utmost respect meant absolutely nothing to her. As far as she was concerned, by lying about his name, E. L. Davis was defying her, thereby disrespecting her, and nobody disrespected Vonda Peters.

  Nobody…

  Vonda looked out at her students, and saw Gary Harbus staring at her wit
h a big grin on his face. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out a small mirror and held it in her lap, inspecting herself, reassuring herself that everything was in place. She set aside the mirror, looking up just in time to see Harbus giggling into his folded arms, and thought, God, what an idiot.

  * * *

  Billy and Junior joined E. L., who was talking to Harbus on the way to their third period class.

  “Hey, where you guys eating lunch?” Billy asked them.

  “I’m goin’ downtown and screw around The Dime Store,” Harbus said. “Why?”

  “We’re goin’ to Billy’s dad’s place. Y’all wanta come with us?”

  “Not me,” Harbus said, thinking, Ain’t nothin’ in there worth stealin’.

  “I’ll go with y’all,” E. L. said.

  “Meet us out front when the bell rings.”

  Billy and Junior stopped at the water fountain, and E. L. turned the corner. Harbus, trailing a few feet behind, rounded the corner and bumped right into Earl Butler, who had turned his head to holler at one of his buddies. By the time Earl saw who had caused him to bounce the side of his head against the wall, Harbus was already apologizing to Earl, who grabbed a handful of Harbus’ shirt, dislodging a couple of buttons as he said, “Harbus, you stupid son of a bitch.”

  Ordinarily, Harbus would’ve just said ‘fuck ya!’, or fired off one of his famous one-liners, but this was Earl Butler, one of the meanest bullies in the entire school, and it seemed like last year, every time he’d turned around, Earl had been there waiting to kick his ass. So, naturally, even though it had been Earl who hadn’t been watching where he was going, it was Harbus who did the apologizing.

  But Earl, snarling, still holding Harbus by his shirt, would have none of it: “I oughta kick your skinny ass all over this hallway.”

  “Please,” Harbus said, and E. L. said, “Why don’t you just let him go?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, new boy?” Earl said, his voice full of anger and menace.

  “C’mon, leave him alone. He said he was sorry.”

  Earl shoved Harbus against the wall, jarring his glasses off his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he let go of Harbus, and said, “Maybe I oughta kick your smart ass instead, huh, punk?”

  E. L. ignored him, and bent over to pick up the glasses. “C’mon Gary, let’s get out of here,” he said, and then handed them back to Harbus.

  “Yeah!” Earl called after them. Go on, ya chickenshit motherfuckers, ‘fore I kick the shit outa both of ya!”

  James Hastie

  Waiting for William Pitch and company at gate 17 of the Charleston International Airport was a slim old man with sad eyes. His name was James Hastie, and he had been in this hellhole for more years than he cared to remember. He stood there, pale as a ghost while the plane taxied along the runway, a familiar chill spreading across his body, because evil was approaching, and he had no choice but to greet it.

  Although Pitch had always assured him that he was free to go anytime he wanted, he had stayed. Even though he had well over one hundred thousand dollars hidden away in his room, he still hadn’t left. Thirty-nine long years had passed; years that had seen Hastie go from the exuberant young mobster once known as Jimmy Quick to the dried up old man that was now James Hastie, house sitter for William Pitch.

  They exited the airplane, Hastie watching, as Pitch went one way and his protégé the other; watching, while Pitch sauntered across the tarmac, smiling as he drew nearer to Hastie.

  “Morning, James. So nice to see you again.”

  “Yes, sir. Always a pleasure to see you.”

  “My guests tell me you’ve taken very good care of them.”

  “I do my best, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do,” Pitch said, grinning. “I guess you must still like it up here?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m quite happy,” Hastie said—a lie, of course, as was nearly every response he had ever offered up to the man.

  Hastie had wanted to turn and run since the day he’d arrived, but something would not allow him to flee. Even when Pitch was not around, Hastie, for reasons he would never understand, could never leave this place. James Hastie had left Baxter County five times in the last thirty-nine years. Three times he had met Pitch at the airport in Charleston, and twice he’d driven him back.

  “Well then,” Pitch said, a big Cheshire-Cat smile crawling across his face. “I’m happy for you.”

  Hastie, nodding to his right, said, “I’ve got the car out front.”

  “Good, grab my bags and let’s head for home.”

  Pitch, an arm around Hastie’s shoulders, walked through the lobby, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said. “Yes sir, Jimmy Quick, it’s good to be back!”

  Earl Butler

  When the lunch bell rang, E.L. found Jackie, Billy and Junior waiting by the flagpole in front of the school. On their way down the hill, Junior introduced E.L. to Jackie, who said, “So you’re the one Earl Butler was rantin’ and ravin’ about.”

  “I guess.”

  “What’d you do to Earl?” Billy asked him.

  “Nothing I know of,” E.L. said, then, shrugging his shoulders, he asked Jackie what Earl had said.

  “Said you smarted off at him and butted into his business.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.”

  “He also said he’s gonna kick your ass next time he sees you.”

  “Damn, you’d better be careful,” Billy said. “Earl Butler’s mean as a snake.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” E.L. said, as the four boys reached the bottom of the hill.

  “So where you from?” Jackie asked him.

  “My folks and I just moved here from Atlanta. Dad runs the Coca Cola Plant.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty neat,” Billy said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” E.L. said, but he didn’t think it was all that neat.

  It took about twelve minutes to reach the tavern. When they got there, it was E.L.’s turn to be impressed. Donnie’s Tavern was divided into two large sections. There was a doorway in the middle where the bartender could go back and forth to the beer coolers. Another doorway in the rear allowed patrons to pass back and forth between the rooms. In one room were tables and chairs, bar stools lined up in front of a counter that ran the entire length of the room. Behind the bar were shelves stocked with candy and snacks, chewing tobacco and cigarettes. A television sat on a shelf on the back wall of the room housing the bar. The Men’s Restroom was to the left of the television. The adjoining room held five booths, four pinball machines and two pool tables, along with the Women’s Restroom. Two swinging doors led back into the kitchen.

  Billy’s dad sold foot-long hot dogs for a quarter, hamburgers for sixty-five cents and Cokes for fifteen cents. Every weekday during the school year, hungry school kids packed Donnie’s Tavern to eat lunch, shoot pool and play the pinball machines.

  E.L., who had never been inside a poolroom or a bar, had only played pinball a couple of times. Sure, his dad ran the Coca Cola plant, but so what? This place, with its pool tables and pinball machines, was something else. He wished his dad owned the place.

  “Wow, Billy,” he said. “This place really is neat.”

  “Yea, yeah, yeah,” Jackie said. “Let’s get some lunch.”

  “I heard that!” Junior called out as Betty Jo Miller came out of the kitchen, waving one of her pudgy hands at them.

  “Hey, boys,” she said. “Who you got with you there?”

  “Hey, Betty Jo,” Junior said. “This here’s E.L. Davis. His daddy runs the Coca Cola plant.”

  “Izzat right? Well, hey there. Y’all boys ready for some chili dogs?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Billy told her.

  While the portly waitress went off to get their hot dogs, Billy stepped behind the bar to fetch their drinks, and two bags of potato chips which they would share. After settling up with Betty Jo, the boys started in on their food.<
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  “So what did happen between you and Earl?” Jackie asked between bites.

  “Nothing, really. I mean, Harbus bumped into him on our way to class and the guy goes crazy, grabs Harbus by the shirt and cusses him out, throws him against the wall so hard it knocks his glasses off. The whole time it’s happening, Harbus is saying he’s sorry. He never even saw the guy. I mean, you could tell he was scared to death. So I told him, ‘Why don’t just you leave him alone?’ And the guy starts cussing me out. So, anyway, I got Harbus’ glasses for him and we left. He didn’t have to do that. Heck, he ripped Harbus’ shirt.”

  Finished with his story, E.L. took another bite of his hot dog. While chewing his food, Jackie warned him, “Earl said he’s gonna kick your ass the next time he sees you, and when Earl says somethin’ like that, he means it. So, look, when you see him, don’t give him a chance to hit you first. Punch him in the nose as hard as you can while he’s cussing you. If you and Earl fight and you don’t hurt him, every time he sees you he’ll be messing with you.”

  “That’s why he jumped on Harbus,” Junior said. “Not because he bumped into him, ‘cause he knows Harbus can’t do nothing about it.”

  “Why’s he like that?” E.L. said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why’s he like to pick on people?”

  “’Cause his dad comes home in a bad mood and kicks the shit out of him?” Jackie said.

  “That sucks,” E.L. said, and then went back to his hot dog.

  When they had finished eating, Billy took their empty bottles behind the bar and put them into a wooden crate, and Junior gathered up the trash and laid it on the bar, so Billy could toss it into the garbage. Then the boys walked around to the poolroom side, where E.L. saw there would be no pool shooting or pinball machine playing today—the place was just too crowded. So they stood for a moment, watching the other kids, before Billy finally led them out of the pool room and onto the sidewalk.