You Don't Know About Me

by Brian Meehl

  “I’ll call the Highway Patrol when I get back to Cincinnati.” He waved his hand. “Get rid of it.”

  I looked down toward the lake. It was a long ways off and the trail was pitch black. “Now?”

  “Now!”

  I shot to my feet.

  I headed down the trail in the darkness. Besides the flat black lake, barely visible on the moonless night, the thing I saw the clearest was a vision: getting back to the campsite and finding it empty. I’d never seen Ruah angry. As I stumbled along, I listened for the sound of the camper starting up. The sound of him ditching me.

  Reaching the lake, I started to throw the phone. Thoughts grabbed my arm. What if he does ditch me? I’ll need the phone in an emergency. He doesn’t want it anymore. And even if he doesn’t ditch me it’s stupid to throw it away. If I keep it and don’t tell him, maybe I can send it back to him in Cincinnati after I get home. And he can give it back to his friend.

  I stuck the phone in the deep pocket of my cargo shorts and hurried back up the dark trail. He hadn’t ditched me. The only light in the camper was a glow from above the stove. He’d gone to bed.

  I stood by the dying fire, catching my breath, letting the fear drain out of me. I crept inside the camper and lay on the couch.

  His voice drifted down from the loft. “Is it swimming with the fishes?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  There was a pause. “Thanks for doing what I asked.”

  The kindness in his voice made me feel guilty, made me want to run back to the lake and throw the phone in for real. Of course, I didn’t. Then he would’ve known and ditched me for sure. I vowed to toss it in the lake the next morning.

  I didn’t go to sleep for a long time. The day had been a total roller coaster. It had started in a deluge, which turned into a fire, which turned into a murder.

  I thought about what Ruah had said earlier about relearning things, about becoming a fool before you become wise. I realized he and I were in the same boat. And I don’t mean the same raft or great fish. We had more in common than that. We had both been poked by that Jewish angel. We both had to relearn something from scratch. For Ruah, it was relearning something about baseball. For me, it was relearning everything: who Mom was, who my father was, who I was.

  21

  Out at First

  The wocking of magpies woke us up. They were like an alarm clock with no snooze button. Ruah was all pumped up. He couldn’t wait to take me to the Rockies game and show me his “crib.”

  We had time to kill before going into Denver, and I needed an excuse to go to the lake to throw the phone in. I was about to ask Ruah if I could borrow his Trek, take a ride, and get rid of the phone, but he beat me to it. He said we should stretch our legs and take a hike around the lake before going to the game.

  I never got a chance to dump the phone. I figured I’d drop it in a garbage can at the game.

  Coors Field looked like a spaceship made of bricks. We parked in a lot for buses and RVs. Ruah pulled a hand over his face and said, “Long face, good to go.” With his cowboy hat, dark expression, beard stubble, and sunglasses, no one in the parking lot recognized him. The fans were too busy with their tailgate parties. It reminded me of lots outside big revival meetings. The only difference was what everyone drank. Rockies fans drank Coors; believers drank the Holy Spirit. When we reached the stadium, Ruah added one more thing to his disguise. He bought two Rockies jerseys, and we put them on.

  I figured if I was going to my first major league game with a baseball star I wanted the full ride. “So,” I asked, “who’s your favorite player?”

  “Of all time?”

  “All time.”

  “Warren Sandel.”

  I’d never heard of him. But I was no baseball fan. For all I knew Warren Sandel was as famous as Babe Ruth. “Who does he play for?”

  “Nobody anymore. He’s long gone—played back in the forties. But he still holds the record for having fun.”

  “There’s such a thing?”

  “There should be. Sandel would do things like go up to bat without a bat.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. In one game he’d been up against the same pitcher three times and struck out every time. His fourth time up against the guy, Sandel figured he couldn’t hit off him, so he goes to the plate without a bat. The catcher protests and tries to make Sandel go back and get a bat. But the ump says there’s nuthin in the rule book about having a bat, and tells ’em to play ball. It made the pitcher so mad he tried to hit Sandel with a pitch. He missed four times and Sandel got a walk.”

  I laughed as we stopped at a ticket window, where Ruah bought two bleacher tickets with cash. We followed a river of people onto a mezzanine overlooking the huge green field. The smell of hot dogs made my mouth water. We made our way to a railing above the seats behind home plate. While Ruah checked a scoreboard showing the standings of major league teams, I watched fans. A few wore purple wigs. A half-dozen guys with no shirts had purple letters painted on their chests.

  “Good news,” Ruah said, “the Reds have climbed into second place. Bad news, they got there without me.”

  The stadium announcer told everyone to rise for the national anthem. An American Indian played the song on a native flute. When he finished, the crowd erupted in a cheer.

  “Let’s go,” Ruah said, pointing across the field to the bleachers beyond left field. “Our seats are out there.”

  We moved along the mezzanine, which arcs around the field. Fans carried small boxes of food and drinks. My stomach growled. The hike around the lake had totally bonked breakfast. “Are we gonna get something to eat?”

  “When we’re closer,” he said.

  To get my mind off stomach thunder, I asked, “So what else did this Sandel guy do?”

  “One time he got two low pitches that the ump called strikes. When Sandel complained, the ump told him they were in the strike zone. So Sandel got down on his knees, and the next pitch he blooped outta the infield for a single.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd as the first batter was announced.

  “C’mon, game’s starting.” Ruah picked up the pace. “My favorite was when Sandel was pitching in a night game and the stadium lights were so bad he couldn’t see his catcher’s signs. He asked the ump to call the game but the ump refused. The next inning Sandel took a book of matches to the mound and started lighting ’em so he could see better. The ump threw him out of the game.” Ruah lowered his head and chuckled. “They don’t make players like that anymore.”

  He veered toward a food stand. We loaded up with bison burgers, fries, and drinks, and headed for our bleacher seats. The walkway was filled with latecomers getting snacks. I heard the crack of a ball on a bat followed by the crowd’s roar.

  “Oh, man,” Ruah said, “we’re missing the—” He stopped so fast his beer sloshed on the cement. He spun around. “Follow me,” he muttered, walking back toward the food stand.

  I caught up with him. “What’s up?”

  “Follow, or walk away,” he whispered harshly.

  Moving past the stand, he dropped his box of food on a condiment cart. Then he ducked in a doorway-sized recess between steel uprights. I kept my food and followed him into the shadowy gap. He slid down the steel column to a crouching position. He yanked off his hat and sunglasses. “Get down,” he rasped.

  I slid down the column behind me and banged my knees into his. He reached out of the recess and pulled a garbage can in front of the gap. Seeing that it didn’t cover me on the other side, he crooked a finger. “Over here.”

  I pivoted and jammed into the corner between the brick wall and his shoulder. Sweat trickled down his temple. His jaw muscles worked overtime. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I saw my agent.”

  “Joe Douglas?”

  “Yeah, he’s here with some goon.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s looking for me.”

  “How’d he know you�
��d be here?”

  “The cell phone,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Joe’s phone number was on it; when the Colorado cops got the call record it led to Joe. They had the Cincinnati cops visit him, too. If Joe figured they had a call record, he probably bribed ’em for a copy. He saw that I called the Rockies box office; that’s why he’s here.”

  I felt the phone still hidden in my pocket. It was like Ruah had said: the phone was like the unlucky rattlesnake skin from Huck Finn. And I’d been the one who turned it into bad luck, by calling 911. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I should’ve been more careful.”

  “What does he want?”

  “What all agents want: more money.” He wiped his sweating face.

  We heard a voice. Ruah’s finger raised, shushing me. My mouth was so dry I wanted a drink of soda, but I was scared of rattling the ice. Sweat dripped under my shirt.

  A sharp voice sounded. “See what I mean? People are flaky. They buy shit and waste it.” The voice got closer. “Why? ’Cause they think they can always buy another.”

  Something exploded in the garbage can. I jumped and almost shouted. The man with the sharp voice had thrown something in, maybe Ruah’s burger and drink.

  The voice continued. “They think whenever they reach in their fuckin’ pocket there’s gonna be another ten bucks. Gimme some ketchup.”

  “Yeah,” another man answered.

  They were at the condiment cart. I stole a glance at Ruah. He mouthed, It’s him, then shook his head in disbelief.

  The voice started again. “That’s what I’m talking about with fuckin’ Branch. He thinks he can walk away from a deal and pick up another like it’s paper on the street. Well, I’m gonna teach him a lesson. He’s not wastin’ nuthin. Not his free agency, not his career, and ’specially not me.”

  The other guy talked through a bite of food. “You really think he’s here?”

  “Yeah,” Joe Douglas said through his own mouthful.

  “If I had his money I would’ve rented a skybox.”

  “He’s smarter than that. He’s not gonna use his credit cards, ’cause he knows I’d be all over it. He won’t even use his nonny card.”

  “Nonny card?” the other man echoed. “What’s that?”

  “When players order shit on the phone, or want a hooker, you think they use plastic with their name on it? No way. Every marquee player’s got side plastic. The wives don’t know it, nobody knows it except their agent and business manager. And if anybody needs cover it’s Ruah Branch.”

  “I didn’t think he was that famous.”

  Joe let a out a yip of a laugh. “He would be if everyone knew what he did at night.”

  “What’s the harm? It’s not like he’s married.”

  “It’s not like he’ll ever be married.”

  There was a pause and the goon asked another question. “What are you saying?”

  “I wish I could say he’s a monk”—Douglas slurped his drink—“or he wears a triple-A cup. But if Branch had his way, he’d rename the team the Cincinnati Lavenders.”

  There was another pause. I wasn’t sure what they were talking about. I looked at Ruah. His eyes were clamped shut. He looked like he was praying.

  “Jesus,” the goon exhaled. “Branch is a fag?”

  The word knifed into our clammy hiding place. I felt Ruah’s shoulder squashed into mine. I pushed away, spun, and landed against the opposite column. I saw his hand reach out, then fall, as he stopped himself from grabbing me. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at the bison burger and fries spilled in my lap. The sight of them made me gag. Bile burned my throat; I swallowed it back.

  I heard Joe’s tight laugh, then another loud slurp. “No big deal,” he said. “Me and half the team have known for years. But it’s a major deal if he wants to out himself and fag up baseball. If he does, his next contract goes to twenty cents on the dollar, his endorsement deal with Pneuma Sports goes poof with the poof, and I’m out a fuckin’ fortune.”

  “Not good,” the goon said.

  “Break’s over,” Joe snapped. “You check the Rockpile, I’ll do the right-field bleachers.” His voice got closer. “No wonder they left their shit. This bison burger’s a buffalo pie.”

  The garbage can exploded again. I held in a scream. Then everything slowed down. Like when you’re in a fight and every second stretches long, things around you get bigger, brighter, right in your face. Everything suddenly made sense. It’s why he’d been so nice. It’s why he’d given me a ride all this time. He was queer!

  I looked up.

  Ruah was staring at me, stone-still. Streaks of sweat crawled down his face.

  My voice came out dry and scratchy. “Are you?”

  Sweat tumbled over one-eye. “They say I am.”

  I shot up like I’d been trapped underwater. The lid flew off the soda in my hand, spilling all over him. I didn’t care. He could’ve drowned in it for all I cared.

  22

  Escape

  I ripped down the stairs and out of the stadium. Some people were still in the parking lot. If he came after me, I’d scream. Reaching the camper, I found a rock by the fence. I broke the side window and yanked open the door. The alarm blared. I ripped off the Rockies jersey, threw it down. I grabbed my backpack and ran across the lot toward the elevated highway.

  As I looked back to see if anyone was chasing me, I thought my eyes were playing tricks. The stadium looked gigantic. Then I realized, behind it, spreading like huge wings, was a wall of clouds. A storm. But something about it looked wrong. It didn’t look like rain. It looked like brown cotton candy.

  I slid down an embankment. At the bottom was a small river. I picked my way along the brushy bank, looking for a shallow crossing point, or enough rocks to stepping-stone across. Up the long steep on the other side was the highway.

  I sloshed across the river and started grinding up the steep. My legs went rubbery. Halfway up, they blew out. My knees dug into the sandy dirt. I bailed on my butt before the weight of my pack and gravity sent me backpack-sledding. I looked back at the ballpark. The storm had pushed closer. Bigger and darker, the clouds bulged over the stadium. Cars were leaving the parking lot.

  I finally grabbed a moment to think. I wished every lightning bolt in the black clouds would hit Ruah Branch. He had a dark secret alright; it wasn’t doing steroids or going criminal. He was a fag, a queer, an abomination to the Lord. I wanted to throw thunderbolts at him myself. I wanted to see him writhe and twist and suffer. He’d lied to me. He’d tricked me into riding with him, into becoming his friend. And all that time, his mind had been crawling with faggot thoughts.

  When God doesn’t want you to imagine certain things, sometimes He steps in; He stops you. The moment I started seeing things Ruah liked to do, God twisted my insides into a fist and punched. My stomach leapt out of my throat. I hurled. Nothing came up but air. I heaved again. More air. With no trail mix to spew, a stomach gets confused. It keeps twisting up, heaving, trying to boot whatever is down there, even if it’s nothing but bile and hate. I honked so many times it felt like I was throwing up barbed wire. All I could do was lie in the dirt and gasp for air between throat-tearing heaves.

  It finally stopped.

  I dropped my head in the dirt and cried. I thanked God for making it stop, for not letting my body turn inside out. And I prayed. I asked God if I should use the money I had left for a bus ticket back to Missouri. Or if I should climb up to the highway and keep going. I pulled out my GPS and turned it on. I was still 385 miles from Providence.

  As usual, God didn’t answer my prayer directly. He had this way of answering me with whatever I gave Him. If I gave Him confusion, He’d answer with His own version of confusion. And confusion on God’s megascale is more like chaos. I looked up and saw His answer. The ballpark was gone, swallowed by the storm of dirty cotton candy. The stadium lights were on. They glowed inside the giant cloud like the eyes of a beast. The beast wasn’t a thunderstorm. I
t was a monster dust storm, devouring everything in its path. His answer wasn’t Go east or Go west. It was Billy, right now you’re not going anywhere.

  I scramble-crawled the rest of the steep to where the highway made an overhang. The wedge of space under the road looked like a good shelter from the storm. I crawled into the cave of steel girders and loose dirt. I watched the mondo storm eat the river. I listened to it moan. Then, in a mad dash, a wall of dust swallowed the collapsing light.

  Dust and biting sand slammed into me. My eyes stung, my throat clogged, my nostrils plugged. The air was filled with flying needles, and I was the dartboard.

  I dug a shirt from my backpack and wrapped it around my head. It helped a little. Then my mouth got so dry and clogged I couldn’t spit. It felt like swallowing sandpaper. I began to feel dizzy. I had to move. If I didn’t, I’d keep sucking dust. I’d be buried alive from the inside out.

  I grabbed my backpack, slid down the embankment, and found the river. I could just make out the water in the boiling dust. It had been clear before; now it was muddy brown. I washed out my mouth and nose, jammed with so much nosepickium it was nosepackium. I dunked the shirt and held it over my face. Each time it got hard to breathe I rinsed out the shirt and plastered it back on my face.

  I kept waiting for the dust to stop. I had no idea how long a dust storm lasted. It was my first. I wondered if it was going to be my last.

  Then I remembered something I’d learned about buffalo and cattle in a storm. Buffalo are smart when it comes to surviving. Buffalo put their heads toward the storm, walk into it, and move through it. Cattle put their butts to a storm, move with it, and sometimes never escape. If I was going to suck dust till I died of an air-ectomy, I was going to die like a buffalo, not a stupid cow. I stumbled down the river, into the storm, back toward the ballpark.

  Between not being able to see an arm’s length and squinting against the dust, I didn’t see the fence. I face-planted into it. The fence stretched across the river and up both banks. I followed the chain link up the closest embankment.