Night of the Avenging Blowfish

by John Welter

  “Gentlemen, look,” Widdiker said in an imperious tone as he gestured at the glossy photos of the whole city. “These are the latest Air Force satellite photos of Washington and its surrounding areas. Thanks to NASA and the Air Force, we can use these spy satellite photos to locate every baseball field in the area.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Deek said. “You got NASA to take pictures of baseball fields?”

  “No. I got the Pentagon to do it. I don’t think NASA has any interest in baseball.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Oxler asked.

  “You’re talking about using a two-hundred-million-dollar military satellite or something just to take pictures of baseball fields,” Pascal said.

  “That’s why these are such good pictures,” Widdiker said cheerfully.

  “Couldn’t we go to prison for that?” Horner wondered.

  “Well, I suppose if this information got into the wrong hands—that is, the American government—yes, we could get in trouble. Now will everyone just shut up and look at the pictures?” Widdiker said irritably.

  For a few seconds, everyone shut up and looked at the pictures. Then DeMarco said, “Hey! There’s my house!”

  “And look,” Yamato said. “There’s my dog!”

  “We’re not supposed to be looking for your dog. We’re supposed to be looking for baseball fields,” Widdiker said.

  “Here’s a baseball field,” I said, pointing to one.

  “And here’s one,” Horner said.

  “Here’s one. And another one,” Deek said.

  “There’s where I do my laundry,” Yamato said.

  “Why does it matter,” DeMarco said, “if we use high-resolution satellite photos to find ten dozen baseball fields if we don’t know which one’s the right one?”

  “Well, that’s a good point, DeMarco. Shut up,” Widdiker said.

  “You know there’s not really a game,” Pascal said.

  “Of course there is,” I said.

  “It’s all bullshit. It’s just a farce.”

  “It’s just a joke. There’s no proof that anyone really planned a game. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Heathens,” I said. “Sometimes things only exist when you want them to.”

  Everyone stared at me curiously.

  “Who said that—Kierkegaard?” Widdiker asked.

  “Who’s Kierkegaard?”

  “What position does he play?”

  “Kierkegaard didn’t say that. It’s just true,” I said. “Sometimes things only exist when you want them to. So if you want the game to exist, it will.”

  “You mean, even if there’s not really a game, we could play it anyway?” Deek asked.

  “Isn’t that our plan?” I said.

  “Well, it is now,” Widdiker said.

  “But,” Oxler said, “what if the CIA goes to a different baseball field than we do?”

  “Then they’ll play their game, and we’ll play ours,” Widdiker said with apparent satisfaction.

  “Then how do you know who wins?” Deek said.

  “I’m tired of all these whining, trivial questions,” Widdiker said.

  “I don’t think it’s trivial to ask how you decide who wins a baseball game played by two teams at different locations,” Yamato said.

  Widdiker sighed impatiently and said to me, “What’d Kierkegaard say about baseball?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of,” I said. “He was a Danish religious philosopher.”

  “Really? We could use a Danish religious philosopher in the outfield,” Deek said.

  “Yeah. Someone with vision,” Yamato said.

  “Night vision,” DeMarco said.

  “Everyone shut up and study these satellite photos,” Widdiker said.

  “There it is,” Horner said exuberantly, tapping his finger on the map.

  “The baseball field?” several people asked.

  “My car,” Horner said. “I have a satellite photo of my car!”

  34

  On July 14, Bastille Day, the day of the Big Wave to Natelle in the mountains—Natelle, who made my heart flutter and twitter and oscillate in the blessed pathology of love—the day of our fantastic and mythological baseball game at a location still unknown to us, Doltmeer called a meeting and said, “You’re going to Indizal.”

  Panic and sadness rushed through me, and I was slightly dizzy, realizing that a trip of any nature to Indizal would probably last at least four or five days and I’d be gone when Natelle came home; gone when she arrived to tell me what she’d decided about her life, and possibly about me, although I wasn’t necessarily in her life, and wasn’t obviously out of it, either. This hurt even more, to realize again as I’d always known and tried to deny, that the one person in the world who mattered to me could come home refreshed and sane and ready to bravely go on without me, unaware she was doing that. She couldn’t even leave me. You had to have someone before you left them, and she had never had me.

  Suddenly nothing made sense. Life was normal. It seemed like I was dying of something I couldn’t report, because no one was supposed to know I had it.

  Doltmeer pulled a world map down from the blackboard and pointed his finger at the North Atlantic off the African coast.

  “Here’s Indizal,” he said.

  You couldn’t see anything. Indizal wasn’t on our map. Doltmeer took a pen from his coat pocket and drew a dot in the ocean.

  “There,” he said. “As you’re somewhat familiar with Indizalian politics already, you’ll be leaving tomorrow to assist with advance security for the president and his staff for an economic conference of small and inconsequential countries that …”

  I was too depressed to care or listen. All I could do was sit still and hurt. I thought of all my prayers, the dozens and dozens of prayers asking that Natelle and I would love each other, and it was like my prayers had risen up out of my heart and into the sky and up past God and far out into the immense waste of the universe.

  Still, we had our covenant at noon. The Big Wave. That was sacred. That was like a prayer. I could at least do that. One more prayer. Despite all the failure, all the fragility, all the fresh sadness swarming through me like blood, there could always be one more prayer.

  I had to do it from federal court. Yamato and I were required to appear at L. D. Krite’s pretrial proceedings to answer questions from the attorneys. Yamato got a haircut. He also wore a new suit, a pale blue suit with white stripes that didn’t look as much like a Secret Service suit as it looked like a lover’s suit. He wanted to look nice for L. D. Krite. It was pathetic and stupid and reminded me of the immense waste of the universe, where all my prayers were swirling. My heart went out to Yamato. He was as pathetic and stupid as I was. So I didn’t say anything to him about his haircut or his new suit.

  Yamato and I sat with federal prosecutors on the opposite side of the courtroom aisle from the defense attorney and L. D. Krite, who wore a simple black pantsuit that, despite her remarkable prettiness, made her look to me like a Ninja warrior. Yamato kept trying to inconspicuously and subtly glance over at L. D. Krite, to see if perhaps she’d smile at him, but she wouldn’t look at us. She had a stoic look, an expression of dignity and defiance. Yamato leaned his head toward me and whispered, “Remember, you answer all the questions, so she’ll concentrate all her anger and contempt on you.”

  “Oh boy,” I whispered.

  I kept looking at my watch, and one of the prosecutors was still asking me to verify key parts of my written report when noon arrived, and I just couldn’t care then that three lawyers and L. D. Krite and a federal judge and Yamato were looking at me when one of the prosecutors said to me, “So you couldn’t have known if it was a real bomb or not?” and I turned toward the mountains and imagined Natelle smiling at me and I waved at her.

  “What was that?” the judge said.

  Of course I couldn’t tell him. You couldn’t dare tell anyone what it was really like to be alive. They’d think you were crazy.

&
nbsp; “It was a signal,” I said, hoping Natelle waved back.

  “A signal of what?” the judge said, looking toward the wall where I’d waved. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “Not expecting, your honor. Merely hoping.”

  FROM SOME primitive or subconscious urge to try to rationalize myself into spontaneously feeling better, I thought of Meher Baba, this popular occultist from the 1960s who said, “Don’t worry. Be happy.” I wanted to find Meher Baba, throw him through a plate glass window, and say, “Happy?”

  Pain was real. You couldn’t happy it away. Which were my brooding thoughts on Bastille Night when I realized in my aching loneliness for Natelle that, not only would I be thousands of miles away when she came home from her retreat, she might not even have wanted to see me if I was there. At her apartment, where I went to water her plants and put her panties back, I decided to leave her a note to explain where I’d be.

  Dear Natelle, to whom my heart is an open and unread book …

  I threw that away.

  Dear Natelle, I put your panties back.

  I threw that away.

  Dear Natelle, Sometimes it feels like I’m already married to you and I’m the only one who knows it.

  That was thrown away.

  Dear Natelle, I’m in love with you, but I’m told this can be managed through drugs and neurosurgery.

  I wadded that one up and heaved it.

  Dear Natelle, I’m really sorry I won’t be here when you get back, but we have to go to Indizal for a few days or longer for some stupid international crap that the president will attend. I hope your retreat went well.

  I hope you feel better about your life. I’d like to help you. I’ll be gone.

  I miss you a lot. Is it wrong for me to say that? Sometimes I think it’s wrong for me to say anything. Maybe if a surgeon removed the front part of my brain, I wouldn’t miss you. Bye.

  I had to go to the Nevermore Bar & Grill to meet everyone for our final game plans, and I felt awful, as if depression and anxiety and sadness were having a fair in my head. I thought of Meher Baba, and I wanted to crush his jaw with my elbow and say, “You look like I feel, Mr. Baba.” I was the only one who could help myself, and I didn’t know how to do it. That was why we had psychiatrists, so they could listen to our problems and say, “You really do feel awful. I’m glad I’m not you.”

  Somebody had to be me. I accepted that responsibility and went to the bar, where everyone was drinking beer and being stared at in our jerseys with the names Beowulf, Cervantes, Bovary, Smerdyakov, Caulfield, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, Dilsey, Earwicker, and K.

  Cervantes raised his beer bottle above the table and said, “A toast!”

  Miss Ophelia St. Clare immediately raised his bottle also and said, “Some toast!”

  “French toast!” Beowulf said.

  “Muffins!” Dilsey said.

  “Bagels!” Caulfield said, and we all raised our beer bottles together in a jubilant ritual that couldn’t possibly have any meaning; which, when you considered the nature of spookball, was appropriate.

  After nine-thirty, when it was dark, Widdiker walked up to the bartender and said to her, “If a group of men calling themselves the Raging Tree Frogs comes in here looking for the Avenging Blowfish, would you please tell them we didn’t go to Georgetown?”

  “I guess so,” the bartender said.

  “It’s important,” Widdiker said. “Tell them that it’s Georgetown that we didn’t go to.”

  “All right. And where else aren’t you going, in case they ask?”

  “Georgetown is sufficient,” Widdiker said. We picked Georgetown, not because we found subtle clues that that’s where the game would be played. We picked Georgetown because we knew where it was.

  It was time. We drove in two cars and parked about five blocks from the baseball field, where we assembled around the trunk of Yamato’s car to get our equipment.

  “Bats,” Yamato said.

  “Bats,” Deek replied.

  “Glow-in-the-dark balls,” Yamato said.

  “Glow-in-the-dark balls,” Deek said.

  “Flashlights,” Yamato said.

  “I thought we were supposed to play in the dark,” Deek said.

  “We’re also supposed to cheat,” Yamato said.

  “Oh. That’s right. Never mind.”

  “Gloves,” Yamato said.

  “Gloves,” Deek said.

  “Infrared night-vision scope,” Yamato said.

  “Where’d you get those?” Deek said.

  “Machine guns,” Yamato said.

  “Won’t that be too loud?” Deek asked.

  “And beer,” Yamato said. “All the equipment’s here.”

  “Gimme those night goggles. I’m the manager,” Widdiker said, grabbing a device that I think was used primarily by attack helicopter pilots for blowing up tanks at night. Widdiker put the device on his head and looked like a rhinoceros, with a bulging, ominous snout.

  “Do I look like Yogi Berra?” Widdiker said.

  “You look like a mutant,” Horner said.

  “Can you see anything?” Pascal asked.

  Widdiker moved his head around for a few seconds, then said, “I can see the Grand Canyon.”

  “Really?” DeMarco said. “Can you see the Northern Lights?”

  Widdiker pointed his finger upward and said, “I can see that streetlight.”

  A woman and a man walked by us on the sidewalk, staring at us apprehensively.

  “Act normal,” I said quietly. “No. Wait. That’d be too disturbing.”

  “Good evening,” Widdiker said pleasantly, nodding his scope at the couple. “We’re the Avenging Blowfish.”

  They walked away without saying anything, and Pascal said, “What if they call the police?”

  “Well, if enough cops come, they can be the other team,” Widdiker said, grabbing a bat and a glove and saying, “Let’s go. But everyone be quiet. Shhh!”

  “Shhh,” someone went, and then all of us started going, “Shhh. Shhh. Shhh,” as we walked along the sidewalk and down the street toward the darkened baseball field under a starry sky with no moon. Instead of just walking onto the field, we pretended that the CIA might be spying on us from somewhere around the field, so we stood behind some thick bushes and trees to see if anyone else was out there.

  “Can you see anything?” Yamato whispered to Widdiker.

  Widdiker looked over the bushes with his night scope, then whispered, “I can see the Great Pyramids of Egypt.”

  “Oh, God. We’re not going to get anything done, are we?” someone complained.

  “Aside from the pyramids, do you see anything?”

  “Everything’s green,” Widdiker said. “These are giving me a headache. Someone else put ‘em on.”

  He took the goggles off and gave them to Yamato, who put them on and peeked through the bushes.

  “Do you see anything?” Pascal whispered.

  “Yes. Yes I do,” Yamato whispered, and then didn’t say what.

  “Well, what the fuck do you see?” I whispered.

  “Out in the outfield, there’a a man and a woman having sexual intercourse,” Yamato whispered.

  “They’re screwing?”

  “I’ve seen it before. I know what it is,” Yamato whispered.

  The rest of us peeked over and through the bushes to see them, but we couldn’t see anything.

  “How do we know you’re not just making that up?” DeMarco whispered. Yamato gave him the goggles and he looked over the bushes.

  “My God,” DeMarco whispered. “There’s two people screwing.”

  “What position are they in?” Oxler whispered.

  “Left field,” DeMarco whispered.

  “I didn’t mean that. I mean are they in the missionary position?”

  “Missionaries don’t have sex,” DeMarco whispered.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until they’re through,” Pascal whispered.

  “I had sex o
utside one time,” DeMarco whispered.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw you,” Horner whispered.

  Everyone started giggling, and Widdiker whispered, “Shut up. They might hear us.”

  “And what’re they gonna do—say, ‘Hey, what’re you guys doing with all your clothes on?’” Deek whispered.

  Everyone began giggling again, clamping our mouths shut and holding our noses to keep quiet, but we were at least fifty yards from the intercoursing couple, so they probably couldn’t hear us.

  “I had sex in a swimming pool one time,” Deek whispered.

  “I had sex in a bed one time,” I whispered.

  “One time I had sex in a hammock,” Oxler whispered.

  “With a ham hock?” Yamato whispered.

  “Have you ever had cunnilingus?” Deek whispered.

  “No, but I’ve had linguini,” DeMarco whispered.

  “I wish you guys would shut up. I haven’t had sex in a year,” Widdiker whispered.

  “I haven’t had sex in so long I donated my penis to the Smithsonian,” I whispered. “They have it in a display along with dinosaur teeth. It’s called ‘Things You Can’t Use.’”

  “They’re leaving,” DeMarco whispered. “She’s putting her bra on.”

  Everyone tried to see, but there was just darkness. As soon as the couple walked away, we all stood up and walked down to the baseball diamond. Widdiker looked around in the darkness and said, “Are there any Raging Tree Frogs out there?”

  There was no answer from the outfield or the trees or the dark.

  “I guess they’re not here,” Oxler said. “So do we go ahead and play ourselves?”

  “That’s right. Let’s get out there and kick our asses,” I said.

  I volunteered to be the batter, since, like at every other gathering, if we put everyone in the field, we wouldn’t have a batter.

  I couldn’t see anything except a slightly dark form where Widdiker’s voice was. Beyond that, all I could see were the upper outlines of trees beyond the outfield. No one else was visible.

  “I can’t see anything,” I said.

  “Do you think that has something to do with it being night?” Widdiker said.