Nobody Bats a Thousand

by Steve Schmale

  “Talk to me son.”

  “You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right just relax. Relax.”

  “Talk to me. I don’t want to sleep. Talk to me about anything. Tell me about your work.”

  “Well, I’m a checker at the Food-Mart part-time, four days a week but that’s”

  “A union job?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not what I want to do. Actually I’m a musician, a songwriter. Do you like music?”

  “Do I like music? Do I like food to eat? Do I like air to breathe? I love music.” He struggled through a long breath, and coughed. “But from this you make a living?”

  “Well, I’ve made some money over the years, but hey, look you shouldn’t talk. I got to go call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t leave me son. Please don’t leave me, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but I got to get some help.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Bob.”

  “Bob? Saul. Do me a favor would you, Bob?”

  “Sure, sure, what?”

  “Don’t be a schmuck. Music is a fine hobby but stick with the union job.”

  “Okay, okay, just relax.”

  “Relax nothing.” Saul fought with a series of weak coughs. “Maybe you should listen from an old man’s experience. Maybe one in a million can make a good living from playing music, maybe one in a million…”

  “Hey, it’s songwriting is where it’s at,” Bob reacted without thought, stopped, and then felt the need to continue. “One song can get picked up by a big artist and bang! You got it made.”

  “Again with the dreaming, better you should be realistic. Don’t rock the boat, what is, is.”

  Bob, struggling not to argue, remained quiet.

  “Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rock the boat. That’s my motto.”

  “Nobody can run away from who they truly are,” Bob said, again speaking before he thought not to. “You can’t give up on something you know you were born to do. You just can’t. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

  “Life is tough enough, son. Why ask for more aggravation, who needs it?”

  A voice from above spoke, “So Bob, why are you so afraid of failure?”

  Moving his head, Bob first saw the long Levi skirt then the bottom of the beard; the hate man and his shopping cart just behind Bob and the old man, hovering over them.

  “Need some help?” Again the hairy smile.

  “Who’s that?” Saul struggled but could not see far enough behind to find the source of the voice.

  “Oh, it’s just a nice gentleman who’s going to help us.” Bob forced a smile he hoped looked genuine. “Right?” he asked, looking up. Speaking slowly, he continued, “Maybe you could go call 911 and get us an ambulance.”

  “Sure, no problem, but first let me continue my thought. Why fear failure? And if you have no goals, you can never fail. Believe it or not I used to make good money when I lived down in LA. Good money, but it was no good. Good dough, and legal, but I had to do things that just weren’t right, it got too tough.”

  Needing the tramp’s help, Bob fought hard not to interrupt. He figured he’d give him another thirty seconds before he became unglued.

  “One day I said if this is it, if this is all there is then it ain’t worth it. Then once I quit being normal, once I began my alternative lifestyle things have been…well, okay. I never get laid, but I didn’t do all that well when I had a nice pad and a nice ride. I guess you could say I used to lie like a rug, but now I’m happy as a clam.”

  “You finished?”

  “Yep.”

  “Now would you go call?”

  “Will do.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “Give me some credit, would ya?” He took a step then stopped to examine the situation. “I think I can trust you to look after my things. I’ve got a good feeling about you, Bob.”

  “Please hurry.” Bob dug into his pants pocket with his right hand as he used the crook of his left arm to balance the old man. “Here’s some change if you need it.”

  “Oh, no, we’re not that good of friends, yet.” With that he was off, briskly, his long skinny arms and sharp dangerous elbows lurching through the air, his legs, constricted, banging against his long denim skirt.

  “I’m so tired. Why am I suddenly so tired?”

  “Hang in there, Saul. Help is on its way.”

  Bob saw their bus approaching. His first thoughts were about missing the bus and being late for work. “Damn,” he said softly aloud. Here was this little man in his embrace, looking as if he were about to be pulled from life by a stroke, or a seizure, or a heart attack, and Bob’s mental pictures were filled with dealings with his uptight boss. Bob wondered if he was always this selfish. He wondered if his selfishness had brought on his recent woman problems, maybe all his problems.

  The bus pulled up and squeaked to a halt, its front door even with Bob and Saul. Two people got on, paid their fares then moved on, leaving Bob a clear view of the big black bus driver, who seemed to be only black fat and big eyes under a driver’s cap.

  “We need help.”

  The driver closed the door, pulled the bus into traffic and drove away, leaving a black cloud of smoke hanging over Bob and the old man.

  “Bastard,” Bob said under his breath.

  “Mission accomplished.” The hate man was back, again standing over them, this time facing them.

  “Who’s that?” The old man faintly opened his eyes then opened them wider for just a second. “Oy, so I’m gone. And the Catholics were right all along? Jesus was more than just another Jew.” He drew in some air. “And what’s with the skirt?”

  “Stitched it together myself. How’d you like it?” He spread his garment out to give it a proper showing.

  “On you, Jesus, it’s becoming.”

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “No, you’re not dead and that’s not Jesus. That’s just some bum.”

  “The bum who made the call to 911. Hang in there old guy. That’s if you really want to. Maybe you should just relax and enjoy the ride to the other side.”

  “Would you shut up?” Bob was tense and terse.

  “Shut up? That’s close but no cigar.” The bum smiled and shook his forefinger. “Remember, it’s I hate you,” he repeated the phrase in different lighthearted tones, “I hate you. I hate you.”

  “Would you just knock it off?”

  “I’m telling you it’s simple. Just three little words I hate ”

  “Stop it!” Bob said sharply. “If you don’t stop that crap, I’ll…I’ll…”

  “You’ll what? Hit me? Go ahead, brother, have fun. It wouldn’t be the first time I got my ass kicked. Don’t you see? I’m society’s punching bag.”

  Looking away from the tramp, Bob shook his head and licked his lips. He felt very shaky, tight, and short of breath.

  “Not even a thanks for the call?”

  “Thanks,” Bob said without looking up.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Several moments later, Bob could first hear the faint call of a siren slowly growing stronger. Looking down at the old man, weakly breathing, his eyes nearly shut, Bob felt guilty that he had fretted and been gloomy all week about his pitiful little problems. Hang on old guy, he thought, please don’t die, don’t become my problem. At least hang on until someone else gets here, don’t die you old son of a bitch. “It’s coming, Saul. The ambulance will be here soon.”

  A fire truck slammed to a stop in the vacant bus stop. Two firemen in blue short-sleeve shirts were immediately off the truck and attending to Saul, one checking his pulse, the other taking over for Bob, who stood and stepped back into the crowd that had suddenly gathered.

  An ambulance pulled up. The attendants were quickly out and at work, pulling out their stretcher and helping the fireman place Saul onto the pads. Bob stepped forward into the street, staring down at the old man, who weakly opened his eyes and loo
ked up at Bob. “Be well,” Saul said just before he disappeared into the ambulance. The doors were shut. The vehicle pulled away with its lights flashing and siren screaming.

  A different fireman came up to Bob. “Are you the one who made the call?”

  “I was with him at the bus stop when he passed out.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Bob shook his head negatively.

  “Well I still need to get a few facts from you, okay? Just routine stuff.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey,” Bob stopped him. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I’d just be speculating, maybe it’s something serious, maybe he just fainted. He looks like a frail old guy, but some of them can really surprise you. But don’t take off, okay? I’ll be right back.” He walked toward his fire truck.

  “Don’t sweat it so much.” The hate man had moved off the curb and next to Bob. “You know Freud said ‘the goal of all life is death’.” The hate man smiled. “Of course the old goat had one foot in the grave when he came up with that one.”

  Bob took one step back. The look from his eyes began to burn, the fire growing, but he was speechless for a time. “You bastard.” He was shaking. “This old guy almost dies in my arms and you got to keep at it with this silly crap? What’s your problem? What do you think this is just some silly game?”

  “It’s not?”

  “You bastard, you son of a bitch!” Bob’s jaw tightened. He clenched his fists and shook them over his head. “I DO HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!” Bob screamed. The passing crowd on the sidewalk pulled away.

  “Now you got it, now you get it! That was sincere, that was bold. That was from the heart. Now we’re cooking.” The bum stood tall and straight, soiled and suddenly solemn. “My name is Gary. Maybe we could get together and talk again some other time?” Gary extended his filthy open hand; earnestly anticipating a congenial reply.

  The End

  AT THE TURNSTILE

  Lenny Decker sat and stared like a mesmerized rat as two attractive housewives debated the effects of cold water washing on hard ground-in dirt. Just minutes before he had come across the definitive cure for annoying static cling, and now this gave him something else to worry about. The debate ended with a time-lapsed display of efficiency; one woman was astounded with the results as her counterpart stood knowingly by, then, with their task completed and the pressure off, one cracked a stupid joke and they both began to laugh like a pair of lunatics who had taken a little shot of something extra in their morning tea. But their laughter, acting like a smoke screen to mask their contentions, failed to divert Decker who had watched closely, had seen and heard all the evidence, and remained unconvinced. Sure, little Johnnie’s crusty play pants were now spotless but there had nary been a mention of new improved whiteners or brighteners, no talk of fierce stain-fighters or active enzymes. Who were these broads trying to shuck?

  Lenny downed his beer, crushed the empty and tossed it ten feet, hitting the TV screen. He lifted himself from the couch then slid his socks across the smooth wooden floor with short staggered steps into the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. Pausing, gripping the sides of the sink, he battled to focus on the mirror and his wavering hung-over reflection wearing a three-day beard. Naked except for a pair of baby-blue boxer shorts, his thick hair pointed in seventeen different directions on a head that felt as if it had been smacked on each side with a piece of a two-by-four. Decker’s sinuses throbbed, and the thought of vomiting actually seemed appealing to him. Mindful that he held the ingredient to escape the pain of reality, Decker slipped back into the TV room to roll a joint, and then out to the back porch to smoke it.

  A rain the night before had cleaned the air leaving puffy, white clouds suspended in a sky bluer than Paul Newman’s eyes. Decker leaned against the railing, inhaled and studied the ocean. The back porch was his sequestered paradise with a grand view. The surf was forty yards away, virtually straight down, the waves below slapping against the rocks in a small horseshoe cove. To his right, north, eighty yards beyond the rocky extension shaping one side of the cove, sat a broad public beach, half of it visible before the coastline receded around the small village and relinquished the open vista to the ocean, green and sedate, stretching out to meet the horizon.

  He had no neighbors to speak of. The house to the south, a vacation rental, was occupied rarely except during the summer, and the house to the north had made a getaway down the cliff during a violent rainstorm two winters before, leaving behind barely a trace—a few tainted scraps of concrete long since engulfed by the hill’s natural brutal vegetation.

  After several minutes of discursive meditation, Decker, without warning, suddenly felt joyful and full of thought. He felt vibrant and alive. He was virtually incoherent. The television again beckoned. A cluster of colors, sounds and shapes, a two-dimensional electromagnetic charge full blown into tiny, full-faced images which stood, talked, and looked like the real thing.

  Decker paid homage to mid-morning programming. Drinking beer while he lay across the couch dutifully soaking in the radiation. First came Vanna White, international celebrity, bestselling author, actress and game show hostess, wearing a hideous red dress with gold stripes which hung on her like a worn, wrinkled blanket. The thing looked like cheap curtains ripped down from the window of some Mexican pimp and hastily wrapped around Vanna just before she was pushed out on stage to do her thing.

  But her wardrobe created the least of Decker’s discontent. It was her attitude that was the problem. There she was, dressed like a simple-minded, yard sale queen in that trashy frock, and she stood, oblivious and unaware, clapping her hands and wearing that charming moronic smile which reassured all the folks out there that life was swell.

  Decker wondered what was next. Did they lead her off stage to a windowless room, feed her Thorazine and let her play on a set of swings until it was time to dress her up in some other ridiculous costume and lead her out to do her thing? He simultaneously crossed her off his party list and changed channels with a touch of the remote control.

  On came a daytime drama filmed like most in pure realistic video, which put the audience right there with the characters lying on the floor of the simulated living room in front of the phony fire glowing in the fake fireplace. The young, handsome, well-groomed, pimple-less couple were pinching, giggling, frolicking and drinking bottled water while the camera rolled.

  “Oh Mark, I’m so proud of you for getting the National account.” The blonde subtly pursed her lips.

  “Oh Ronda, darling, I couldn’t have done it without you.” Mark gently held her delicate hand.

  For those two and all their friends life, in between shattered romances and sudden trips to the hospital, was all shits and giggles, and landing that important new account, and strategically shopping for just the right, hot, new car, and planning what outfit to wear to a trendy club on Saturday night; busy, busy, busy.

  Finally, the two knocked off their useless chatter as they zeroed in with solid eye contact, embraced, and slowly and romantically entered into an awkward kiss that quickly built into a frothy lip-lock rated PG.

  Mercifully, the scene faded and a commercial began. A thin, graceful model comes into a locker room after a workout. The camera, starting at her ankles, slowly moved upward and showed every vital, succulent inch of her in her skin-tight outfit before it closed in on her face so she could begin her sales pitch.

  “I do what’s best for my body so I think my hair deserves the best too…”

  “Sold! Sold! Just show her body again and I’ll buy the damn shampoo, I swear it!” Decker is suddenly up on his feet, standing and yelling at the TV.

  The gorgeous chick left the screen, a graphic commercial about earwax came on, and Decker quickly calmed. He wandered into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator, empty except for three beers, a few condiments and an open pac
kage of turkey baloney. After a little thought, he decided to have another beer, a little aperitif before his third successive baloney sandwich breakfast.

  He walked out back onto the porch. A faint but cold wind hit him and opened his eyes. There was not a soul on the beach. Decker was alone with the ocean, one-on-one with the sea. He leaned on the railing and looked down at the waves breaking against the rocks in the cove. Five minutes later he had not moved. He stood still staring at the water, looking and thinking, as if he were anticipating some personal miracle. Like he was feasibly waiting for the ocean’s vague sounds to abruptly transform into resonant words and sentences; the obsequious son eagerly awaiting the revelation of some ancient, wily secret from an omnipotent source of fundamental truth. A farfetched concept but one that was not completely foreign to Decker, who for some time now had felt on the verge of hearing voices—grand, clear voices of sense and reason—and intuitively he knew the communications would be more acceptable and seem more real if they originated from a source as grand and familiar and mysterious as the ocean. Directions or voices from a stray dog or a cartoon eunuch pictured on a box of cereal just would not be as convincing, no matter what they had to say.