Home Run

by Paul Kropp

  Scrooge sends his love. Of course he sends every girl his love. What makes that guy so sexy and me so not?

  From: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  To: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  Al, you are sexy, but not in a conventional way. You just need somebody to discover how sexy you really are. Scrooge simply has a confidence that’s appealing. Nothing to be jealous of.

  The shocker in your email was the reference to Nicole Johanssen, known around here as the Ice Queen. She fits the description, and impresses all the rest of us as hopelessly vain and stuck-up. Kirk must really be something to have melted the ice wall, kind of like Prince Calaf managing to seduce Turandot.

  Send me salacious details.

  From: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  To: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  Turandot who? I must cluelessly ask. As for salacious details, all I can report is that Nicole and Kirk emerged from our shared hotel room in a somewhat dishevelled state. Good word, eh? Kirk maintains that they were just talking, and I believe him, but others suspect that there were sheet-rumpling activities going on. Anyhow, it’s turned into a full-blown romance with letters flying across the continent (Kirk doesn’t do email, remember), etc., etc. She even sent him flowers one day. Made our room smell quite lovely for almost a week.

  From: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  To: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  Turandot from the opera by Puccini, you delightful dolt. The flower gesture is really quite touching. Sounds like your roommate won her heart, to the extent that Nicole has a heart. Incidentally, if you ever get in the mood to send flowers this way, I’d be happy to receive same. Saw Nicole the other day and mentioned Kirk’s name in passing. Her flawless white skin turned bright pink in response, a sure sign of romance.

  Your bit of gossip has done wonders for my social standing around here. Apparently anyone who knows anything about Nicole Johanssen goes ahead two big squares on the social game board. Keep any gossip coming my way. If this continues, I may even end up popular.

  Incidentally, I’ve decided to become a philosophy major, destined for a career of worthy unemployment. This will give me time to contemplate the significant issues of life, society, and the moral universe. Should work well with my new hermetic existence. Too bad you’re not an aspiring Jean-Paul Sartre, I could be your Simone de Beauvoir.

  From: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  To: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  Have decided to become a poet and thereby join you in contemplating the significant issues of life, society, and the moral universe. Unfortunately, I had to look up “hermetic” so I fear that my vocabulary may not measure up to the demands of the poetic muses. Also having a heck of a time writing my first poem, but I’m sure it’s developing subconsciously. The muses can’t be rushed, I’m told. They show up on their own timetable, so I’m trying not to be impatient.

  23

  The Muses

  THE GREEKS SAID that there were nine muses, three of whom gave inspiration to poets. Surely, I thought, one of the three would begin to speak through me. I kept priming the pump, reading Keats and Shelley, Tennyson and Wordsworth, even T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I picked up little magazines at the library that were full of difficult, obscure poems by contemporary poets. Surely, I told myself, with all this pump-priming, the waters of poesy would soon pour forth.

  But no poetry gushed from my soul, or my computer, until a lovely April day on campus. I was sitting outside Sloppy Joe’s, trying to keep a pizza slice from slipping onto my shirt, when the muse finally sang. There was, I must admit, a little immediate inspiration. Walking down the quad was a particularly gorgeous girl whose streaked hair glowed golden in the sunlight. I watched her pass, trying not to be too obvious in my ogling, and then admired her as she walked off to class. It was that moment when the muse gave me my first line of poetry:

  Like a fresh peach, her perfect skin hints at the luscious girl beneath.

  That was it. The line seemed more William Carlos Williams than Keats or Shelley, but I wasn’t going to complain.

  “Al, you’re smiling,” Kirk said when I came into our room. “You find some girl to help you break your vow?”

  I shook my head. “You of little faith,” I said. “My vow is intact. I’m smiling because the muses have begun to sing.”

  “The muses?”

  “The poetic muses,” I explained. “Remember I said that I was going to be a poet? Well, I’ve been having a little trouble with, like, actually writing something. So today, for the first time, I got inspired. You ready for the line?”

  Kirk nodded and I delivered my first line of verse.

  “Is that it?” Kirk asked.

  “Yeah, so far.”

  “So there’s going to be more?”

  I snorted. “Of course there’s going to be more. Who ever heard of a one-line poem? I just have to flesh out the poem a little.”

  “Uh, right,” Kirk said, trying to be noncommittal. “I picked up a package for you at the mailroom. I think it’s from my sister.”

  There, on my bed, was a package wrapped in plain brown paper. Kirk got roses from his girlfriend; I got a brown-paper package. This was just the nature of life, I kept telling myself, and I’d better get used to it.

  I opened the package and found that it contained a letter, a book, and a ring—the TLW ring.

  “This is not good news, Kirk,” I told him. The ring seemed clear enough, but if I was unclear on the message, the book brought it home. It was a self-help book entitled Sixty Ways to Leave Your Lover.

  Kirk was curious and came over beside me. “I don’t like the look of this,” he said.

  I unfolded the letter and read it aloud.

  Dear Alan,

  I’m tried of waiting. You could have come to see me over Spring Break, but instead you head off to Mexico with my brother. Why didn’t you invite me, you jerk?

  I cried, Al. Honestly, I cried. I’ve been waiting for you. You were going to be the one, the very first one.

  But you waited too long. There’s a new guy in my life, and he didn’t make me wait until the summer. You had your chance, Al, but you weren’t quick enough.

  Here’s your ring back. Maybe you can use it with the next girl. This one just got tired of waiting.

  Patti

  The dot over the i in Patti’s name came complete with a little smiley face sticking out its tongue at me.

  “Al, you’ve just been dumped,” Kirk said.

  “Scorned,” I said, using the poetic turn.

  “Are you heartbroken?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Crestfallen?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And now my father has a problem,” Kirk concluded. “I’d better give him a call about Pug.”

  In truth, I felt very little when I read Patti’s letter, the most significant emotion being relief. I guess our pseudo-romance had managed to preserve her virginity for another three months or so, but the girl was destined for real sex sooner or later and I had just made it a little bit later.

  But I liked the idea of being a scorned lover. If love is the source of most poetry, then scorned love must be the second most promising inspiration. I took out my pen and began to write.

  Like a fresh peach, her perfect skin hints at the luscious girl beneath,

  Like an azure sky, her clear eyes speak of deep pools within,

  Like a crimson sun, her lips whisper of hopes and dreams to come.

  But no more! She scorns me now with those perfect lips, Her eyes are fixed on another, her skin caressed by his hand,

  Not mine, and I am left longing for one more touch of those sweet lips.

  Maybe not a great poem, but not bad for my very first effort, if I do say so myself. I decided to celebrate the event by emailing Maggie.

  From: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  To: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  Have completed poem number one! Also been dumped by Kirk’s sister, and m
aybe that was the inspiration. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s being dumped by women. Isn’t that the first rule of writing—write what you know about? I may not know about Mount Parnassus or the art of Tuscany or the moors of England, but I do know what it’s like to be scorned.

  I finished my email and then went on to write two more poems. I was on a roll! Admittedly, poems two and three were a bit rough—more collections of random thoughts than polished poems—but, heck, who was I to put down random thoughts? They were certainly better than no thoughts.

  From: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  To: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  So when do I get to see this poem? Surely you are not going to hide your light under the proverbial bushel. Besides, you might have a great future as a poet for the rejected and forlorn. Simple success is so boring, but striving and failing is what gives meaning to our lives.

  Also decided to take an intensive French course when school ends. Two weeks in Chicoutimi should make me sufficiently bilingual to at least order a hamburger, if not read Sartre in the original. Ergo: won’t see you until June. Tell me that you’ll miss me. Better yet, write me a poem that says you’ll miss me.

  On a more mundane note, I have decided to dye my hair black. I’ve decided that redheads do not command the respect and attention given to those with darker hair colours. Rather than complain about discrimination and prejudice, I’m going to try life as a brunette. Giving up the contacts, too. Serious people wear glasses and I’m redefining myself as a serious person. You may not recognize me when next we meet, my friend.

  I tried to imagine Maggie with dark hair, and failed. But when I thought about her, a whole set of words started floating up in my mind—or maybe they were feelings trying to find words. So I started another poem, this one about Maggie, and it turned out to be a sonnet. Okay, it wasn’t a rhyming sonnet, but it had fourteen lines and was vaguely romantic. Then I got another idea, and quickly scribbled down the rough version of a second sonnet.

  Maybe I am a poet, I said to myself after all these poems were in my computer. I mean, how many poems does a guy have to write to qualify?

  24

  Farewell and Welcome

  IN MAY, THE SCHOOL YEAR ENDED, and it was time to pack up our gear for the flights home. I finished up my first year at BU as an A-minus student, which was more than decent, given my relatively poor mark in Philosophy 101. Officially, I had learned something about the oppression of women throughout history, the development of poetry in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the role of enquiry in the dialogues of Plato, and the importance of feminist avatars in films of the 1940s. Unofficially, I learned about tequila, single-malt Scotch, cigars, older women, younger women, drinking, and hangovers.

  But what did I really learn? I learned that I would never be a Kirk. I learned that there really are people who are serious about themselves, and what they want, and what they believe in. My roommate never failed to impress me, right up to that final week when he broke the terrible news.

  “You’re what? I demanded.

  “I’m transferring,” he said. “There’s a Christian college back in Calgary that’s got a perfect program for me.” “You’re going where?” I shrieked.

  “Honestly, it was a tough decision. I’ve been thinking about all this, what I’m learning here, and what I want for myself. And it wasn’t easy, Al, but I think I’ve explored the pagan side enough,” he told me.

  “Your haven’t explored the half of it,” I shot back. “I mean, there’s falling down drunk and kinky sex and weird drugs and…I mean there’s lots more to pagan than you’ve seen so far. You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

  “I’ve seen enough, Al,” he said. “I have to admit, there’s an attraction to it. That’s what I felt down in Puerto Vallarta, the pull of temptation. It’s powerful stuff. Satan has always been powerful. If I stay here, I may not be strong enough to resist.”

  “Kirk, you’ve already resisted plenty.”

  “But I’m weakening,” he said. “And I want to concentrate more on my Bible studies. The context here is all wrong. There’s too much history and anthropology and not enough faith.”

  “Faith,” I repeated.

  “Yeah, faith. It’s important to me.”

  “I know.” I was losing this argument. In truth, I had probably lost the argument a couple months before.

  “Still, I’m going to miss you, Al. You’ve been a great friend and opened my eyes to so many things. I don’t ever want us to lose touch. Whatever happens, we’ve got to stay in touch.”

  “You don’t do email,” I said.

  “So buy some stamps,” Kirk replied.

  “But next year I’ll have to get a new roommate, and God knows who I’ll end up with,” I whined.

  Kirk gave me that patronizing church minister look. “God does know, Al, and it’ll be fine.”

  So there I was, dumped by my own roommate, and feeling pretty miserable about it. When I flew back home, I was able to add three more poems to my “scorned” collection. I had made the best friend of my life, and lost him in just a year. Is that fair? I ask in a very unpoetic fashion. About as fair as going to Puerto Vallarta for Spring Break and coming back with my virginity intact.

  Even the plane flight home was bad. I had a middle seat. Why do they even assign middle seats? The middle seats in planes should be reserved for use by very small people in case of emergency; they should never be used for gangly university students. But there I was, trapped between an older lady who had decided that both armrests belonged to her, and a large businessman in the aisle seat who was clicking away at his computer, elbows spread sideways.

  Maybe travelling in my parents’ car wasn’t all that bad.

  When we touched down, the plane taxied for twenty minutes before coming to the gate, then the various sardines packed in the aluminum can wriggled in their seats, stood up, and prepared to exit. The actual exit, however, was delayed because the pilot hadn’t pulled the plane forward enough, so we had to go through the landing procedure again before we were free to walk up the vile-smelling ramp to the airport itself.

  Next time, I told myself, I’ll take the train. Except there aren’t trains anymore.

  But I got a surprise when I got to the baggage area—it wasn’t just my parents waiting for me, there was a welcoming committee: Scrooge, Jeremy, Hannah the Honker, and Allison the Gorgeous.

  Scrooge gave me one of his enormous smiles. “We heard you were coming, my man, so Hannah baked you a cake.”

  “A small cake,” Hannah said, handing me a cupcake. “Actually, I bought it at the coffee shop, but you know the expression: it’s the thought that counts. Maggie sends her love, but she’s studying French, or something, for another couple of weeks.”

  I looked at them open-mouthed. It was the entire membership of Maggie’s Friday film society except Maggie herself. Scrooge was the same as ever—cool and assured—but the others had changed. Jeremy, the guy whose advice about girls had proved so unreliable, looked almost respectable. He’d put on twenty pounds, but his hair seemed less greasy and there was no longer the hint of spittle on his lips. Hannah, known as “the Honker” for her large nose, had become quite attractive—nose and all. Maybe it was something about makeup and hairstyle, but Hannah was now worth a second look. Maybe a third look. And Allison, always the most beautiful girl in our high school, seemed a little tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, which kind of spoiled her usual Angelina Jolie perfection, and her hair was cut in a strange way. She remained gorgeous, despite all this, but a bit more human than she’d been even a year ago.

  “So, welcome home,” Allison said, kissing my cheek.

  “Yeah, welcome home, dude,” Scrooge said. For a second I was afraid he might kiss my other cheek, but that would have been over the top.

  “Welcome home, Alan,” chimed in my mother, looking unusually cheerful. From her expression, you might even have thought she missed me.

  My fa
ther didn’t add to the welcomes. He was off chasing my first piece of luggage, which was circling on the baggage conveyor.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I told them, probably blushing a little.

  “You’re a poet, my man,” Scrooge replied. “You’re supposed to know what to say.”

  Hannah asked the obvious: “So how many poems have you written, Al?”

  “Thirty, give or take,” I replied.

  “Thirty?” Allison asked. “Thirty poems?” Her blue eyes looked at me with something that I took to be admiration.

  “Some are fragments. Some aren’t even close to finished,” I admitted.

  “Hey, man, that’s not bad,” Scrooge said with a little real admiration. “I mean, you’ve made almost as many poems this year as…uh…”

  “As you’ve made girls.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, right.”

  My dad came up with my two suitcases at this point. I told him there was one more thing, a computer box that actually had most of my stuff. It was amazing how much I’d collected in just nine months away. If Kirk had been staying on, we would have gotten an apartment and kept the stuff out west, but as it was I’d be heading back to the dorms for my second year and there was no summer storage.

  I can’t say that I was looking forward to a summer back in my parents’ house. On the bright side, my father had managed to score a job for me with the city public works department. This was a cut up from my previous work at Dairy Queen. On the dark side, my job involved emptying trash bins from the local parks. I suppose there was some justice in this, since my three years of work at Dairy Queen had been entirely devoted to making trash for the bins I would now be emptying.

  Still, it was a unionized job so the pay was good—almost seventeen dollars an hour, double my old pay at Dairy Queen. The money would give me a rich life at school and perhaps another Mexican vacation next spring.