Hittin' It Out the Park

by Allison Hobbs

  “Of course, honey, and please do feel free to come back and kiss my pretty ass anytime,” Cheryl replied, just as pleasantly, twirling her fingers in a ‘bye-bye’ fashion.

  “Slut!” Sheila said, turning around to walk away.

  “Ghetto-ass bitch,” Cheryl said as she did.

  She watched as Sheila sashayed across the room, stopping to strike what she probably thought was a provocative pose in front of a short, but dapper, man who looked to be in his sixties. Having overheard the man talking about the possible ramifications if Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez was suspended for steroid use, Cheryl knew he had some kind of professional connection with baseball. Probably a former player, she had figured. Okay, Cheryl thought, watching Sheila play with her hair, obviously she knows he’s a millionaire. She watched in amusement as the man glanced at Sheila, then turned and walked away without saying anything. She wanted to walk over and laugh out loud in the woman’s face, but looking at Sheila’s hurt expression, she couldn’t bring herself to upset her further.

  Cheryl started scanning the room, looking for Stephen, wondering—again—how he could possibly think hobnobbing at one of the Major League Baseball’s All-Star parties was going to help him land the job interview he wanted. He needed to face the fact that while his family loved him, his friends adored him, and Cheryl, herself, simply cherished him, it would likely be a cold day in Hell before he was hired as a press agent for a major sports franchise. And especially not a media-conscious team like the New York Yankees. Too bad they didn’t live in San Francisco, she thought as she started walking toward him. She shook her head. No, he wouldn’t even stand a chance of getting hired there.

  She waited until the balding middle-aged man with whom Stephen was talking walked off before poking her friend in the ribs and asking, “How’s it going, baller?”

  Stephen snorted and waved his hand. “Girl, please, I got this.”

  Cheryl gave a quick glance from side-to-side before stepping closer to Stephen and saying in a low voice, “Hey, hey, hey . . . what did we talk about on the way over here?”

  Stephen’s perfectly tweezed eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

  “Did you or did you not say, ‘Girl, please,’ a moment ago?” Cheryl said, pinching his arm.

  “Yes, and . . . oh right!” Stephen rubbed his bicep. “Well, it’s no big deal. I doubt anyone heard.”

  Cheryl placed her now empty martini glass on a nearby table and started straightening Stephen’s tie. “Well, let’s hope not. Even people who may accept the fact that you’re gay may not like you acting like a queen.”

  Stephen sucked his teeth. “Oh, come on. Saying, ‘Oh, girl,’ is not acting or sounding like a queen.”

  Cheryl shrugged. “Not to me . . . but why give someone arguing against you getting the job more ammunition?”

  “Interview, Cheryl, interview. I’m merely trying to get an interview at the moment.”

  “Girl, please, you know you’re getting that.” As soon as the word left her lips, Cheryl’s hands flew up to her mouth as if to try and force them back in. Eyes wide, she looked up at Stephen, whose amused smile quickly evolved into full-out laughter.

  “Now, see, honey, I don’t want any more lectures from the likes of you!” Stephen said, finally. “Gonna tell me I can’t say, ‘girl,’ and then you turn right around and call me girl.”

  “All right, all right, I messed up. So, how’s the brown-nosing going?”

  Stephen leaned his head to the side and smiled. “All insults aside, I’d say I’ve done very well.”

  “Oh?” Cheryl raised an eyebrow.

  “Yep.” Stephen grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Cheryl, then took a sip from the other. “I’ve been invited to a meet-and-greet at Yankee Stadium next week for the communications director.”

  “You go, boy!” Cheryl said excitedly. “How the hell did you swing that?”

  “Cheryl, girl, you’re not going to believe it, but—”

  “Eeek!” Cheryl couldn’t hold back a scream as freezing liquid spilled over her left shoulder and down the front of her dress. She whirled around, fists balled, expecting to face a smirking Sheila, but instead found herself looking up at a skinny copper-complexioned man with a bad case of acne and a Jheri curl. She blinked her eyes to make sure they were working right. Yes, it was a Jheri curl that he was sporting, even though it was 2013—more than twenty years after that style had played out.

  “Oh, Miss, I’se so sorry!” Mr. Jheri Curl spoke, jarring her from her nanosecond stupor. “I was walking and someone musta bumped me, and kinda hard. I hope I ain’t hurt ya.” His Southern accent was so heavy it was hard to understand him at first.

  “Hurt me? No. Soaked me? Yes,” Cheryl huffed, almost stumbling as she backed up into Stephen.

  “Damn, man. What? You blind?” Stephen grabbed a linen napkin from a table and went to start dabbing at Cheryl but suddenly stopped. “Yo, I mean, what? Did you want to take a picture or something?”

  When Cheryl followed Stephen’s eyes, her irritation quickly turned to indignation. The cold drink had plastered the short, white lace dress to her body, making her look like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, and if Mr. Jheri Curl’s expression was any indication, she was the winner, hands down. Her head flew up high, and her back straightened as she took a deep breath, causing her breasts to rise, and heavily heave. Eyes narrowed, she stared at the gaping man. “Oh? I suppose you think this is funny?”

  “Huh? Oh! No, ma’am. I’m really very sorry,” Mr. Jheri Curl sputtered. “For real. It was an accident, ya know, like I said. Someone bumped in ta me.”

  “Well, you ruined her dress,” Stephen interjected.

  “I’ll be glad to pay for it,” Mr. Jheri Curl quickly responded.

  Cheryl’s hand slowly made its way to her hip. “This dress happens to be an original Dolce and Gabbana. It cost about three thousand dollars.”

  “For that little bit of material?” Mr. Jheri Curl’s head jerked back. “Get outta here.”

  “It’s called high-fashion, you Lionel Richie wannabe,” Stephen snapped.

  “Yeah, well, I call it someone sold you ’bout thirty dollars’ worth of cloth and thread for a hunnert times the cost.” Mr. Jheri Curl shrugged. “But anyways, I weren’t speaking about buying a new dress; I was speaking about paying ta get it cleaned.” He turned to Cheryl. “Miss, I don’t know how many times and how many ways I can say I’m sorry, but I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. It can’t be but so expensive what to get cleaned.”

  “Oh, my God, did he really say, ‘what to get cleaned’?” Stephen put his hand to his brow and leaned his forehead back in dramatic fashion. “Not only does he look like nineteen-eighties Rick James, he sounds like nineteen-sixties Gomer Pyle.”

  Mr. Jheri Curl, who Cheryl figured had to be about six feet three, looked down at the five-seven Stephen, with a puzzled look on his face. “Sir, I said I’m sorry. It really was an accident. I’m not sure what you want me ta do, but really, there’s no need for name calling.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t—”

  “Look,” Cheryl interrupted. “Stephen, I appreciate the chivalry, but I’m sure he’s not lying, and it really was an accident. Let’s get outta here, okay?”

  “Fine. Oh, wait. Give me about ten more minutes!” Stephen said hurriedly. “I’ve got to get Chuck’s telephone number.”

  “What?” Cheryl sucked her teeth. “Who’s Chuck?” But Stephen was already scurrying away. “Oh, great,” she said under her breath. Here it was she hadn’t wanted to go the party in the first place, then she ran into evil-ass Sheila, then she got a drink spilled on her $3,000 dress making her look like a chick from a Girls Gone Wild video, and now she couldn’t even leave when she wanted because her ride had suddenly decided he needed to track down some “Chuck.” Eyes narrowed, she turned to face Mr. Jheri Curl again, prepared to take her entire frustration out on him. “You know—”

  “Here
you go, ma’am,” he said, placing the lightweight jacket he had been wearing over her shoulders. “Let’s cover you up.”

  “Look you—”

  Mr. Jheri Curl quickly held out his hand to shake Cheryl’s. “Randall Alston, ma’am.”

  “Okay, then, Randall Alston—”

  “Please, call me Randy.” He flashed a huge smile. “All my friends do.”

  “WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP AND LET ME TELL YOU OFF, DAMN IT!”

  The spilling of the drink had only garnered the attention of the people in close proximity of the incident; Cheryl’s high-decibel rant, however, caught the attention of almost the entire room. Not only could Cheryl see the people in front of her and to her side, staring, she imagined feeling lasers of heat hitting her back, emanating from the eyes of those behind her.

  “Cripes,” Cheryl said inwardly.

  “Listen, it’s really still warm outside even though it’s late,” Randy said, breaking into her thoughts. “Maybe if we stand outside on the patio for a little while, the warm breeze will help dry you off.” He gallantly put his arm around her shoulders and started leading her the few feet to the terrace.

  Henry, the drink waiter she had talked to earlier, tapped her on the shoulder as they passed. “Are you okay, ma’am? Can I get you anything?”

  She glanced at his tray of martinis, and shook her head. “Wait, yeah. Any chance I can get a double scotch?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Henry said, with a nod. “And you, Mr. Alston? Would you like another glass of water?”

  Randy gave a sheepish grin. “Uh, no, I don’t think I could handle another one.”

  “So, it was only water, then?” Cheryl asked when they were finally outside, and sitting across from each other at a table off into a corner of the terrace.

  “Yep, only water. I don’t drink alcohol during the season.”

  “Good, then I don’t have to worry about a stain or smell. Even a clear alcohol like rum or vodka would have meant a dry cleaning bill. Looks like you got off easy.” Cheryl smiled up at him. During the season? Hmm, a ball player, then? Maybe this party wasn’t such a waste after all.

  She leaned back and gave her potential prospect a good once-over.

  Country, without a doubt, and his hair is pathetic, but once you get past that, and the patch of acne on the right side of his face, this Randy guy is actually kind of handsome. And, face it; he is charming as all hell.

  “Wow, this chair is a little wobbly, ya know?” Randy stood up, and quickly pulled a chair from another table to replace the one he’d been sitting on, giving Cheryl an opportunity for a more thorough inspection. She struggled to hide a smile as she looked at the front of his pants. And he’s packing, too. Now it wasn’t only the wetness of the water making her nipples hard.

  “So, you’re a baseball player? What team?”

  “The Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders.”

  “Oh!” Cheryl didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her voice. Minor League. Old country Randy Alston was barely making $2,000 a month. Though modeling wasn’t half as lucrative as most people thought, she could make five or six times that amount in a good Fashion Week. Ten times that amount if you counted the value of the clothes some designers gave in lieu of cash.

  “You probably haven’t heard of them,” Randy continued. “It’s what you call a farm team—”

  “I’m familiar with them,” Cheryl cut him off. “One of the New York Yankees farm teams, not far outside of Pittsburgh. What position do you play?”

  “Third base.” Randy smiled. “You’ve really heard of the Rail-Riders? Get outta here.”

  Cheryl shrugged. “My father was a sports attorney, in addition to being a HUGE Yankee fan. He knew everything there was to know about the team.”

  “Was? Your father’s passed away?”

  Cheryl nodded, biting her lip. “He died when I was ten.”

  “I’m guessing by the tone in your voice, it still hurts. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “No, it’s okay. But, yeah, it still hurts. He and I were . . . we were really close. I still miss him after all these years. I guess I was what you call a Daddy’s girl. As far as he was concerned, I was a little princess. And when you’re a kid, you never imagine something’s gonna happen to your folks. He was only forty. Who has a heart attack at forty, right?” Cheryl quickly blinked back the tears that she hadn’t realized were welling up in her eyes. “But, hey,” she said, trying to force a smile. “Such is life. And death. Huh?”

  “Hey, hey.” Randy leaned over and put his hand over Cheryl’s. “You don’t have to play down your pain for my benefit or anyone else’s, It’s okay ta still be grieving.”

  Cheryl blinked harder, but Randy’s soothing words, the warmth of his hands, the martinis, and speaking about her father combined to give her heart a bittersweet ache. She finally gave in, and used her hands to wipe the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  Randy quietly moved his chair so that he was sitting by her side. “You okay?”

  Cheryl nodded. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” She looked up to see Henry approaching them. She felt a small wave of embarrassment, realizing that both he and Randy had seen her minor breakdown. “See, this is your fault,” she told the drink waiter with a pout.

  “Mine, ma’am?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, you were supposed to stop me before I had too much to drink, remember?” Cheryl answered. “Now, look, here I am . . . a crying drunk.”

  “Well, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying,” Henry said stiffly, placing her drink in front of her, “at least you’re no longer bored.”

  Both Cheryl and Randy started laughing, and though Henry did his best to keep his reserved demeanor, even he eventually let out a few chuckles.

  “I brought you another glass of water, in case you changed your mind, Mr. Alston. I hope you don’t mind?” Henry asked after he fully gained his composure.

  “Not at all, Mr. Reynolds. Thank you,” Randy answered, trying unsuccessfully to mimic Henry’s clipped tone.

  “How do you two know each other?” Cheryl asked after the man had left.

  “Oh, we don’t really. I only met him for the first time today.”

  Cheryl looked at him quizzically. “And you exchanged names?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of funny, actually.” Randy flashed a small grin. “I’ve never been ta one of these fancy parties before, you know, where they go around serving drinks on a tray, you know? So, I come in with Mr. Archer—”

  “Mr. Archer?”

  Randy nodded. “He’s a sports agent. He’s the one what invited me to this party. I couldn’ta afforded no five-hundred-dollar ticket, otherwise.”

  “So, okay, you came in with Mr. Archer . . .” Cheryl prodded.

  “And so as soon as we come in he’s going around talking ta people, and people are talking ta him, and pretty soon I look around and I don’t know where he is. So, I’m standing in the corner, by myself, and Mr. Reynolds—”

  “You mean Henry?”

  “Well, ya know, I’d feel funny calling him by his first name, being he’s old enough to be my father,” Randy said sheepishly. “So, anyway, Mr. Reynolds walks by with a tray of champagne, and asks if I want one. I say no, and he walks away. About an hour goes by, and I’m still in the corner, by myself, and he comes and asks if I’d like a martini. I tell him no. Another half-hour goes by, and he comes by again. And then he gets kinda close to me and says all proper-like, ‘Excuse me, are you sure you don’t want anything at all, sir? Perhaps I can get you a special drink from the bar.’ So, now I’m feeling a little embarrassed, you know? So I tell him a glass of water will be fine, ya know? But then, when he’s about to leave to get it, I ask him if there’s a charge for the water.”

  “Oh, no.” Cheryl clapped a hand over her mouth. “You thought—”

  “Heck, I ain’t never been ta no party where they was giving out free drinks before. And it’s an off-pay
day weekend, so I’m not carrying a lot of cash, ya know?” Randy chuckled. “So, then he looks at me, and his lips get real tight like he’s trying not to smile, and he tells me all the drinks are free.”

  “Oh, poor Randy,” Cheryl cooed, between chuckles.

  “When he gets back he’s smiling and all, and I’m feeling like I know him by now, so I introduce myself, ya know? And then he tells me his name, and bam, I done met my first person at this high-falutin’ party.”

  Cheryl took a sip from her drink. “Well, you know Mr. Archer.”

  Randy snorted. “I probably know Mr. Reynolds better than I know Mr. Archer.”

  “I thought he was your agent?”

  “Mine? Nah. I wish he was, though.” Randy let out a sigh. “He’s got some pretty big names on his roster.”

  Cheryl’s brows furrowed. “I don’t get it, then. Why did he give you a ticket to this party?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.” Randy shrugged. “He showed up in the dugout last week, and was talking to our manager. After he finished he came over and tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I’d ever been to New York City. I told him no, and he said that Nike was giving a party that I might want to check out, ya know? Told me the date, gave me his card, and said for me to call his office to have them send me a ticket. They mailed me the ticket, I caught the bus up from Scranton this morning, and here I am.”

  “And here you are.”

  “And here I am.” Randy gave a slight chuckle, his eyes lowering to the table, before shaking his head. “Yep. Here I am.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Cheryl gave him a slight nudge. “You okay?”

  “Yep, I’m okay,” Randy said, hurriedly looking up again. “I was kinda hoping, well, ya know, that this invite mighta meant something.”

  “Something like what?” Cheryl asked, although she was sure she knew what he meant. It was the dream of every Minor League player to make it to the majors. Randy would be no exception.

  “I don’t know. Well, I thought he was, ya know, scouting me or something.” Randy started chewing his lip. “I been with the Rail-Riders for almost three years now. Went there right outta high school. This is the final year on my contract. It woulda been nice if a big-time agent was interested in finding me a spot in the majors. But when we bumped into each other when we were coming in, it was obvious he didn’t even recognize me, ya know?”