Nobody Bats a Thousand

by Steve Schmale

  Danny pictured the brown and white brute shaking his body and furiously wagging his tail, the compact hulk of muscle painted with a thin coat of fur, about to go crazy with joy. A few moments later two dead bolts were snapped, the dog flew out through the opening door, and there stood Chet; six-feet-two, thinning hair cut short, full beard, wire-rimmed glasses. All two hundred and fifty pounds of him stuffed into a faded pair of overalls, which had about two dozen political and message buttons from the 60’s pinned across his chest like prized medals from the past.

  “I knew it was you,” Chet said. “You’re the only person alive that Morrison doesn’t bark at.”

  Danny was now kneeling on the porch, rubbing the ears and neck of the excited pooch. “Ya busy?” He could hear the Rolling Stones loudly playing Wild Horses from the other side of the two steel-framed cloth partitions that formed a small entry hall.

  “Nope, just doing what every other red-blooded American is doing right now, watching Monday Night Football. 49ers against the Bears, come on in.”

  Danny closed the door, and he and the dog followed Chet out of the small alcove into the one big room.

  Danny liked the layout, which was bare and spacious, but practical and always somewhat neat. A big-screen TV and a decent stereo-CD setup sat against one wall facing three large stuffed chairs arranged around a large, short round table. From there, looking at slight diagonal across the width of the room, across fifty feet of brown carpet, sat a computer, a printer, and a three-drawer filing cabinet. A single long florescent fixture hung just above them all, and the workstation was flanked by, on the left, a huge waterbed surrounded by short stacks of books and magazines; on the right, a weight bench and weights, all painted with thin cobwebs and dust. At the far end of the room was a small kitchen and, in the opposite corner, a toilet and a big turquoise spa rigged with a shower attachment.

  “It’s still the first quarter.” Chet sat directly in front of the television. “Here, take the number two chair, right next to the command center.”

  Without taking his eyes off the dog Danny sat, trying to calm, pet and keep the beast at bay.

  “You’re looking sharp kid. What’s the occasion?”

  “A meeting at school. The Exchange Club.”

  “Everybody wears coats and ties?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Pearl wants everybody to be businesslike. It’s sort of a future businessman’s thing.”

  “Oh, I get it. It’s like the Hitler Youth but with ties instead of armbands.”

  “Yeah, it’ll probably be pretty boring. Mr. Pearl is usually pretty boring anyway, plus he doesn’t like me. Last year he threatened to flunk me in History even though I had all B’s and C’s. He said I daydreamed too much.”

  “You ought to tell the tight-assed bastard that dreaming enhances your life, and see what he says.”

  “I don’t think I better.”

  Chet smiled. He reached for a quart jar on the table in front of him and looked at the jar, empty except for a few small ice cubes. He pulled his bulk from the chair and walked across the room to the kitchen area.

  “Me, I’m celebrating. I just wrapped up a piece for National Magazine.” He packed the jar with ice cubes, took a gallon of white wine from the refrigerator, filled the jar to the brim and returned to his seat.

  “Those two weeks you were sneaking over here to feed Morrison, I was hanging out in the worst ghettos in Oakland and L.A., researching.” Chet shook his head and took a drink. “Ya know, you always hear people bitching about welfare mothers, and I admit those chicks shouldn’t be popping out all those kids, but those people live a hard life, and nobody can convince me that anyone would live that way if they really had a choice.” He took another big drink. “It’s fucking tragic, man. It really is…ALL RIGHT!” Terrell Owens made a nice catch for a long gain.

  “But that’s probably why you’re here.” Chet pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to Danny. “I really do appreciate you looking after the little maniac. I hate to kennel him, and you’re about the only person who can get near him when I’m not around.”

  “It’s no problem. He’s a good dog.” The beast was now leaning back and relaxing. Lounging on his left hip with his body against Danny’s leg and his head on Danny’s thigh; panting softly, relishing an endless supply of head scratches.

  “I know your mom doesn’t want you over here.”

  “Step-mom.”

  “How is the old bitch? Aren’t you afraid she might have used an infrared scope to track you coming across the field?”

  “No, they went to a dinner for Assemblyman Richards.”

  “Your step-mom didn’t happen to read my piece on that old swine Richards in West Coast magazine did she?”

  “Not all of it. She read about half a page, then she got pissed off, and the next day she called up and cancelled our subscription.”

  “And I just wrote about the graft, greed and abuse of power, and I could document it all.” Chet stopped to watch Jeff Garcia throw an incompletion on a third down.

  “You should have seen the stuff I had to leave out. That lecherous old bastard, he’d leave his wife at home while he was out with some young chick, pumping cocaine up her nose to make sure he got in her pants. The very next day the old hypocrite would show up, smiling and shaking hands to headline some anti-drug thing at some grammar school. I had a lot of good dirt on him from good sources, but the magazine didn’t want to risk it.” Chet smiled just enough to slightly widen his face and beard. “Which is just as well, if you wrote the whole truth about the old rat the story would be so wild the public’s natural disbelief would protect him, and he’d still walk round acting like a fucking saint. Such is politics, lad, such is life.” Chet took another big gulp of wine. “Hey, I’m not being rude on purpose if you want a Pepsi or something you know where it is.”

  “No thanks, I gotta go. Troy should be here pretty soon.” The dog had now calmed and moved and was lying on the floor next to Chet. Danny began to nervously wave the twenty-dollar bill. “I was just, ahh…Troy and I, um.” The slick, cogent set of words he had developed and practiced under the stars would not come.

  His stuttering and fumbling caught Chet’s attention. “What?” He stared at Danny.

  “Oh…nothing.” Danny shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Hey, come on kid if you got something to say, say it. You’re among friends,” Chet leaned over and stroked his dog. “Don’t be afraid to ask anybody anything. That’s one of my cardinal rules.”

  “Well...Troy and I, we were, ah wondering if, …if we might.” Danny looked down at his freshly shined shoes. “If we might buy a couple of joints from you.”

  “WHAT?” Chet picked up the remote and muted the TV. The Stones continued to play at high volume. “So the Young Republican wants to get high. What brought this on?”

  “I don’t know. Troy and I were talking, and one thing led to another, and then I dunno, I thought about asking you.”

  “Wow.” Chet rubbed his beard. “Hey, I know you’re already eighteen, and I’m the last guy to tell an adult what to do or not to do, cause bottom line you can’t legislate morality, but hey, I’m not your fucking drug guru. And why come to me? I thought every kid above the age of six knew where to score some weed. Plus, if it ever got back to your step-mom she’d hang my ass. Isn’t she the head of some local anti-drug committee?”

  “I think she has a meeting once a month. But that’s mostly why I came to you so nothing would get back to her. It’s a small school and Peter has a big mouth. Plus, at school everybody stays in their little groups. The Stoners party, and the Rah-Rahs campaign against it, and both groups act real superior and smug. Like they know something nobody else does.”

  “It was basically the same when I went to high school thirty years ago. Kids never really change.” Chet went to the refrigerator, topped off his jar with wine, and sat back down. “And like I said if you got busted I can see the headline now ‘Young Republican succumbs to ’�
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  “I wish you’d stop calling me that. You know I’m not political.”

  “Come on kid.” Chet sat forward and smiled. “You’re being programmed and groomed for it. I bet your parents have your choices of colleges down to three or four, and choices of fraternities down to one or two.”

  Danny broke off eye contact and looked down at the floor. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to college, at least not right away. I’ve made up my mind to join either the Navy or Air Force after I graduate.”

  “But you haven’t told anybody but me, right?” Chet did not wait for an answer. “Hey, the service isn’t for everybody, neither is college, but at least in college you should have a little less of a chance of getting your balls shot off.”

  “Did you do either one?”

  “I lucked out in not having to go in during the end of Vietnam. My draft lottery number didn’t come up. So I stayed home in Utah and got whole hog into education. I was the Editor of the school paper for two years, campus President for three semesters, worked in the church, you know the whole Mormon thing, and I still had my Masters at twenty-two.”

  This picture of Chet puzzled Danny. “What happened?”

  Chet laughed. “Hey, what happened to you?” He laughed again. “I’ll tell you what happened, kid. I lucked into a good job in San Francisco, came to California, and in three months I went from LDS to LSD.” Chet took another drink. Moisture from the outside of the jar dripped onto his overalls. Several drops of wine escaped his mouth, rested a few seconds then slid down to hide under the first layer of his beard. “Hey, believe it or not I’ve got a good reputation and I’m good at what I do. It’s just that sometimes, well most of the time, it takes a while to get it done, which, by my weird way of associating, brings me back to the subject of weed.” Chet grunted and farted. “It’s being made into too big of a deal. I mean nobody has ever OD’ed from it, and it can’t turn you into an unfeeling, psychotic crazed maniac like crack or meth or alcohol can. It just relaxes most people and makes ‘em lazy, which explains why it’s been a thorn in the side of every industrialized society since the British tried to colonize the Middle-East, and they had to keep chasing down all the day-laborers, who were hiding out somewhere smoking hash and staring at a pyramid.” Chet leaned forward and began to talk quicker with more intent, barely drawing a breath. “Of course I know people who, when they get loaded, get jazzed up and energized and work like albino mules.” He patted his knees with the palms of his hands. “Pot’s kind of a personal thing. I guess that’s why it can be sort of mystical, but it’s not that big of deal. Sure the shit’s bad for your lungs but so is living in Pittsburgh or LA. And it can scramble your IQ around and put your memory in a delay mode for a few hours, but it also breaks down categories in your brain, and lets different parts of your brain get acquainted, which can give you a fresh viewpoint on things. Which isn’t bad for some people.” He drank some more wine while he thought that over.

  “I mean there’s a time and a place for everything, you dig? I mean you shouldn’t get high and try to fly the fucking Space Shuttle or drive a bulldozer or bolt together my new car on the assembly line, but to relax and watch a football game, nothing is better than a marijuana cigarette.” He smiled. “And sex is great when you’re stoned.” He stood. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He walked to the refrigerator to top off his jar with wine and ice.

  Danny sat silently, partly watching Chet, partly watching the game. The Stones had quit, and a Hank Williams Jr. CD had started automatically. Danny was now very sorry he had started this controversy. He sat hoping he had heard Chet’s last bit of raving for the night, hoping the whole thing could now be constituted as a dead issue.

  Chet plopped back down. “Shit.” He pounded the arms of his chair. “It really shouldn’t be a big deal, abuse, abuse is the key word, that’s what they should be worried about. And abuse, harmful abuse can incur with cocaine or cheesecake…or wine.” He took his quart jar from the table and sat back to drink heartily.

  Danny now realized he had somehow struck a deep nerve. Many times he had sat and listened to Chet rant and rave about politics or sports or bad service at the grocery store, but his discourses had never lasted long, and he had never seen Chet become so sullen and intense as quickly as he had on this night.

  Long before, Danny had observed that Chet, like Troy’s granddad with his pompadour and shinny ’55 Chevy, was caught in a time warp. Chet was stuck in the 60’s, Troy’s granddad in the 50’s, both longed to preserve the past, and Danny thought that might be a key to Chet’s sudden change tonight.

  Whatever the reason, as they both sat silently watching TV Danny now tried to plan a tactful way to dismiss himself.

  Then Chet started again.

  “Abuse is the key word, and everybody has to deal with their own demons.” He grinned and nodded his head. “Hey,” his voice grew louder like he couldn’t sense its volume. “I admit I’m getting a little messed up tonight, but I’m not out on the highways killing anyone. This is just a reward for staying sober the last few weeks while I was right in the middle of all kinds of depressive shit, and a half-gallon of wine and a couple of joints is no big deal. A good party night for me used to be a quart of Wild Turkey and an ounce of coke, but I’ve straightened up. I’ve cut down.” He paused for a few seconds. “Of course I had to lose my family before I finally woke up.” Chet blankly stared at the TV as he slowly rubbed his hand up and down his stomach. He looked at Danny. “But you have people like Nancy Reagan and your step-mom who want to control everybody’s buzz. A cocktail or two at five o’clock is fine, that’s legal, or some schmuck with an advanced degree writes them a prescription for Prozac or Valium, that’s OK too, that’s modern medicine. But if some brick mason wants to relax and self-medicate himself by burning a joint after work, then he’s a criminal and an accessory to murder.” Chet stood, picked up his wine and began to pace the wide space of carpet in the middle of the room.

  “Everybody wants to get a different slant on reality at least once in awhile. Every species on earth gets high one way or another. That’s what a kid is doing the first time he hangs upside down on the jungle gym, it’s natural.” He continued to pace. “Catholics drink altar wine to put them in a better frame of mind to talk to God. Now I’m sure there’s some good, straight-laced Protestants who would think the Catholics immoral for sipping wine in church, but why would that be any of their business. I mean the whole point is if someone wants to be Donna Reed or Pat Boone that’s great, but that doesn’t mean everybody has to be that way. Radical, intellectual, potent motherfuckers who were out there on the edge created this country, freedom and individuality and change were the big keys, not the status quo. Change, or the opportunity to change and grow, harnessed by the Constitution, that’s what it was all about. What enlightenment, what a document, what a huge step up for the human race. The Founding Fathers, those cats were something else, man. They stared down reality with a vengeance, and they weren’t ready to be fucked with.” He stopped his pacing and stood in the middle of the room. “They had questions, deep, deep questions, they wanted answers, and they weren’t about to be denied.” Chet looked directly at Danny. “Blind Faith don’t it get kid, never did, never will.”

  Danny sat almost motionless. He had more or less followed Chet until just towards the last, but now his concern was turned to where the speech was headed and when it would end. He checked his watch.

  “Nothing in life is all black and white, nothing.” Chet began to pace again, now bit faster than before, while his dog, lying prone, moved only his eyes to follow his owner back and forth across the room. “I don’t know, I don’t know, in this society if you’re a workaholic that’s acceptable, you’re probably considered a success, but if you’re another type of extremist, like say a junkie, then you’re a fucking loser, case closed, but they’re both addictions…I don’t know. I don’t know.” Chet plopped back down into his chair. The tightness left his face, and he sat st
aring at the television, looking weary and defeated.

  The CD ended and the music stopped, with the TV still muted Chet and Danny sat in silence. A full, awkward, forty seconds of silence, during which Danny saw the chance to diplomatically break away. Again he checked his watch.

  “Well, uh, I better get going. Troy should be out there pretty soon.” Danny stood. The dog was quickly up and ready, following Danny to the front door.

  “Wait.” Chet came to his feet, caught up to Danny, and then stood near the door, facing him. “One time and one time only.” He pulled two hand-rolled cigarettes from the breast pocket of his overalls. “Here’s something you guys can handle. Just don’t get stoned and drive and don’t ever ask me to buy you any booze because I won’t.” He held the cigarettes out to Danny.

  Danny stopped. He looked at the joints, then at Chet, then again at the joints, but he didn’t begin to reach for them. At that moment, standing in the foray, he saw Chet—eyes magnified and distorted, a tall meaty lump of faded denim—as both an innocuous and devilish friend, and Danny suddenly felt splashed with a loss of innocence which he felt no need to magnify or pursue.