Running the Bases - Definitely Not a Book About Baseball

by Paul Kropp

  “Uh, right,” I said. I believe I gulped rather loudly, perhaps in relief, perhaps in gratitude.

  “I personally favour shallow and meaningless, at least for now,” she went on.

  “I thought you didn’t…”

  “Oh, I don’t. I’m speaking theoretically here,” Maggie said, not missing a beat. “And my social life is not the issue here, it’s yours we’re working on. With a little help, Alan, I think you’ll get laid by summer vacation, if not sooner.”

  “How?”

  “With my help,” she replied.

  “You’re just volunteering to help me?” I think my eyes were as big as a grande coffee lid.

  “Yeah, for a small fee.”

  “A fee!” I shrieked. “I have to pay to get advice? At least Jeremy is helping me out for free.”

  “Look, Alan, nobody these days does anything out of the goodness of their hearts,” Maggie said. “Even the school volunteer program is a graduation requirement, and it looks good when you’re applying to universities. Personal generosity was something from the Kennedy era, like the last century.” Maggie was putting this forward in a very matter-of-fact way, like a sales pitch. “And I’m going to give you a good deal on this: a small retainer, project costs and basic fees for service.”

  “A small retainer…”

  “Yeah, I think fifty dollars should handle it,” she said. “But you didn’t let me finish. I will guarantee results.”

  “A guarantee?” I said. My mouth had already dropped open so the words came out a little funny.

  “Yeah, a money-back guarantee. You’ll get laid by summer vacation or your money is refunded, no questions asked.” Maggie stared at me, maybe trying to focus since I knew she couldn’t see without her glasses.

  “You’re serious?” I said.

  “Dead serious,” she replied. “Is it a deal, Al, or do you need time to think about it? I suggest you not check with your current project manager, since he won’t give you an unbiased view. It’s your call: free advice from a loser or good advice from someone who can give you the secrets of success.”

  This was starting to sound like an infomercial. Secrets of success? Doesn’t everyone want the secrets of success?

  “Well, I’ve probably got fifty bucks I could spare,” I said. I had a few hundred dollars sitting in the bank, thanks to gifts from Aunt Betty and a few odd jobs in the neighbourhood. And for summer I had lined up a job at Dairy Queen, so I could spare a little money for this.

  “Then we’ve got a deal,” Maggie concluded. “Bring the cash to lunch on Monday and I’ll give you your starting instructions and the name of your first target girl. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I mumbled.

  “And Al, in the meanwhile, try to dress a little better. That Men in Black look is so out of it.”

  4

  The Agreement

  WHAT IS FIFTY BUCKS? I asked myself. Maybe ten movie rentals, or the price of a decent dinner out. I mean, you can spend fifty dollars on a book! So I got the cash from the bank machine and met Maggie in the cafeteria on Monday.

  “You brought the retainer?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling the envelope out of my math book.

  “Good,” she said, smiling her silvery smile. Maggie had her glasses back on and was dressed in a jacket that made her look like a lawyer-in-training. “I’ve selected the start-up girl for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Not so fast,” Maggie replied. “There are some terms and conditions to this project, so we’d better sign off on those.”

  I was starting to sweat. This was turning out to be much more serious than I ever imagined.

  “Here’s the agreement, fee schedule and guarantee,” Maggie said, pushing a sheet of paper forward.

  “You ever think of becoming a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Only every other day,” she replied, deadpan. “Just read it over and make sure it’s acceptable.”

  Agreement between Alan Macklin (hereafter referred to as “the Dater”) and Maggie McPherson (hereafter referred to as “the Project Manager”)

  Project: Alan

  Dated: March 8

  (i) Whereas: The Dater is desirous of improving his social life and learning to date girls in a successful manner;

  And the Dater has an Ultimate Goal, herewith defined as sexual intimacy with a girl, this intimacy to be non-commercial in nature and the culmination of his dating activity;

  And the Dater acknowledges that both his experience and expertise is limited in this endeavour so he recognizes his need for advice and counsel.

  (ii) It is agreed that: The Project Manager will offer advice and counsel to the Dater with the aim of helping him to achieve his goals;

  The Project Manager will work confidentially on the Dater’s behalf;

  The Project Manager will bill the Dater monthly according to the following fee schedule:

  memos of advice, 50 cents per word

  meetings for advice, $10 per half-hour

  successful first-date arrangements, $25

  follow-up dates, $5 per date

  successful achievement of Ultimate

  Goal, $100

  (iii) Retainer: The Dater agrees to pay a $50 retainer against such future billings as might be involved in the project. This retainer is not returnable in the event of cancellation.

  (iv) Expenses: The Dater agrees to reimburse the Project Manager for such expenses as are deemed necessary to complete the duties listed in clause ii, above.

  (v) Billing: The Project Manager will bill the Dater monthly for services rendered, such bills to be itemized.

  (vi) Cancellation: This agreement may be cancelled by either party on receipt of two days’ notice, in writing. Following cancellation, a full and final billing will be delivered by the Project Manager to the Dater.

  (vii) Warranty: The Project Manager guarantees that the Dater will achieve his Ultimate Goal before June 30, or all monies received, with the exception of the retainer and expenses, will be returned at the request of the Dater.

  (viii) Expiry: This agreement expires as of July 1, unless an extension is agreed upon by both parties.

  “I tried to keep the language simple,” Maggie said.

  “So I end up paying you five dollars a date, like forever?”

  “No, you pay $25 for the first date, then five dollars for each subsequent date until the agreement expires,” Maggie explained. “Getting you ready for the first date is a lot more work for me. Besides, a date itself will cost you a lot more than five bucks, even going to a movie.”

  “You didn’t define ‘date,’” I pointed out.

  “There’s got to be some trust in a relationship like this,” Maggie replied. “We both know what a date is. And I won’t know for sure if you achieve your Ultimate Goal, though I suspect I’ll hear rumours about it. This just sets down the initial terms and conditions, to avoid problems later on.”

  “Is your father a lawyer?”

  “No, a school custodian. I’m going to be the lawyer. Now are you ready to sign off and give me the money, or am I wasting my time here?”

  I looked at the agreement and did a quick calculation in my head. I’d be spending at least a hundred dollars on Maggie’s advice, but that’s about the same as an hour with a decent psychiatrist. Besides, this came with a guarantee. What shrink could ever guarantee what I wanted?

  So I signed two copies of Maggie’s agreement, one for me, one for her, then handed over the envelope. I was pleased to see that she didn’t count the bills right in the middle of the cafeteria. As she had said, trust would be an important part of this whole project.

  “So what girl did you pick?” I asked.

  “Your target girl is Melissa Halvorsen.”

  “Isn’t she a little young?”

  “So?” Maggie’s thin eyebrows lifted up as she looked back at me. “Melissa’s bright. She can talk about something besides makeup and movie stars. And her standards aren
’t too high. I know she was going out with Josh Weisbaum last year, and he’s hardly god’s gift.”

  It all went by so quickly that I didn’t even catch the implied insult in her last sentence.

  “Well, I guess she’d be good,” I said. I mean, I had to say something.

  “But I better be clear on this,” Maggie went on. “I’m not saying that Mel is easy. She’s young, so I don’t think you’ll get to your Ultimate Goal with her, but you have to start somewhere. Call it a practice relationship. It’ll give you a chance to learn how to hold hands, say nice things about her hair and learn how to kiss.”

  “I can kiss,” I said defensively.

  Maggie snorted. “Yeah, every guy thinks he knows how to kiss. You just don’t hear what the girls are saying on the other side. I tell you, Alan, you guys have a lot to learn.”

  “And you’re going to help me?” I asked.

  “All the way,” she said brightly. “That’s what you’re paying me for. I’ll start nosing around to see if there’s a millivolt of interest.”

  “A millivolt?”

  “You never know, maybe there’s even a full volt, maybe your love potential is up to a flashlight battery.”

  I just looked at her, stunned.

  “What I mean is, I’ll tell a couple of Mel’s friends that you’re interested and see what I hear back. Maybe she’s got a vague interest in you; maybe not. I’ve got to check out the potential before you make a fool of yourself again. I mean, you didn’t just think that you were going to walk up to Mel and ask her out, did you?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Al. It’s like fishing. You have to bait the hook, then wait to see if there are nibbles, and then wait until the fish bites. You don’t just take a club and smash the fish on its head.”

  Dating and fishing. I’d never seen the connection.

  “Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”

  5

  Target Number One

  I BEGAN CHECKING out Melissa Halvorsen in the halls. Big shoulders, big hair, big everything…but nicely assembled, as Jeremy put it. Since she was a year younger than me, she wasn’t in any of my classes. But I knew her older brother, one of the stars of the Regis football team, and I knew a little about Melissa, too. She played a strange sport called field hockey, at which she was apparently quite good. She was said to be a decent student, but not exceptional, with more talent in phys. ed. than English. In school she had no reputation, one way or another, except that she’d wasted a year of her life going out with Josh Weisbaum, who was a notorious jerk. But Mel was young, as Maggie had pointed out, and deserved to be forgiven for such poor judgment.

  Just in case Mel was checking me out, I began dressing a little better for school. Less of my usual pulled-out-T-shirt-dangling-sideways look and more of the put-together, semi-cool look. Or so I thought.

  “Aren’t those pants a little low?” my mother asked.

  “It’s the style, Ma,” I told her.

  “And they’re all baggy around your shoes. You might trip and fall over.”

  “I’ll be careful, Ma.”

  A man has to take risks in the name of style. It sounded like a saying worthy of Confucius, but I didn’t share it with my mother. Clothes weren’t my main concern; Mel Halvorsen was.

  For a week, nothing happened. No eye contact. No word from Maggie. Nothing—except continuing ridicule from my friend Jeremy.

  “You look like a jerk, man!” Jeremy would say. “Not even Hannah the Honker would go out with somebody like you.” Or later, “Why are you wasting time with a fat little chick like Mel? I could find you a better girl at St. Hilda’s, no problem.”

  I hadn’t fully explained to Jeremy my arrangement with Maggie. I was suffering enough from his nasty comments without giving him more ammunition.

  As March dragged on, I was starting to lose patience. I figured Maggie had abandoned Project Alan, or that my Ultimate Goal was now the laughingstock of every girl in school. What’s worse, I was in one of my bad-zit phases. Not only were there the usual dozen zits on both cheeks, but I had a real monster on my nose. I was Rudolf, and it wasn’t even Christmas.

  In math class, I was thinking about that monster zit when Maggie zoomed in. “See me after school, at the library,” she whispered. Then the ever-vigilant Mr. Greer forced us all into zombie-style silence.

  I was a little nervous as I waited around the library for Maggie to show up. Our library is not particularly a hot spot after school—there were some kids working on projects, a couple of kids who actually play chess, a few kids surfing for a project or else trying to find a way around the anti-porn software. Still, it was sunny and reasonably quiet. A good place to lay out a plan.

  Maggie came storming in, looking at her watch even as she came through the door. She had to squint to see because she wasn’t wearing her glasses again. “Okay, we’ve got to be quick. I’ve got a ride home in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Right,” I said. “So what’s the story?”

  “Mel’s interested, vaguely, in you. Not hugely interested, but not definitely put off by the concept. I planted the usual rumours that you had the hots for her, and after a few giggles she didn’t seem to object. At least, those are the reports.”

  I felt like a soldier preparing for battle. General Maggie had seen reports from the scouts, indicating favourable enemy positions. Now it was a matter of preparing for the initial skirmish. Lieutenant Alan reporting, sir!

  “So tomorrow you’re going to invite her out for coffee.”

  Yes, sir! I almost said. “When?”

  “After school for the invite. She’ll have to lie and say she’s busy if you ask her to go out right away, so make it the next day—that’s Thursday.”

  Yes, sir! “And then?”

  “She’ll say yes, unless you…” Suddenly she focussed on my nose. “Jeez, that’s a mean zit.”

  I probably turned a bit red, though not as red as the zit itself.

  “Anyway, the zit will have cleared by tomorrow,” Maggie went on. I think she felt a little bad about embarrassing me. “So when you go for coffee, just chat a little, back and forth, and then ask her to a movie on the weekend.”

  “Chat a little?” I asked.

  “Yeah, like small talk. About the weather, or school, or something.”

  I had heard this advice once before. “Look, I’m not so good at small talk.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Give you a list of things to talk about?” Maggie shot me an incredulous though unfocussed look, her thin eyebrows going way up high.

  “Yeah, that would be good,” I said.

  “Jeez, we’ve got a long way to go on this, Al. Okay, I’ll scribble down some ideas for you. I’ll get them to you in math tomorrow. Just remember, there’s a small fee for each memo.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Good,” she said, looking at the library door. “Anyhow, I’ve got to run.”

  “Big date?” I asked, grinning stupidly. From what I heard, Maggie had never been out on a date with anyone.

  Maggie frowned at me, screwing up her mouth in a funny way. “Ride home. Braden’s got the car today.” She raced out of the library so fast that I didn’t have time to respond.

  Braden? Not Braden Boyce, Mr. B.B. himself, the allstar senior who had to fight off girls with a stick. Couldn’t possibly be that Braden.

  —

  By the following day, as Maggie predicted, my monster zit was down to ordinary zit size. On the other hand, I was all pumped up. Mel Halvorsen was already interested in me. She already knew I liked her and hadn’t fallen down laughing or begun to vomit. There was hope.

  All I needed were those ideas on small talk. Our class had a test scheduled for math that afternoon, but that wouldn’t have been a problem if Maggie hadn’t come in late. Everyone else was already seated when Maggie burst through the door, breathless, with some excuse about phys. ed. running overti
me.

  Mr. Greer was not amused. Mr. Greer was the kind of teacher who was never amused. We sometimes called him “he-who-cannot-smile” and speculated about why he might be unwilling to show his teeth. A century ago, we figured, Mr. Greer would be the kind of teacher who would use a strap to beat math concepts into students’ heads. Now he used wicked tests and blistering sarcasm, perhaps with equal effect.

  Still, Maggie was his favourite student and she had a decent excuse to be late, so there wasn’t much that he could say when she raced to her desk.

  There was nothing he could say until she dropped the list on my desk.

  “Margaret,” Mr. Greer told her, “we don’t allow cheat sheets in this room.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, blushing. “I know that.”

  “So what did you just leave on Alan’s desk?”

  “Some notes, sir. On a project…for another class. Nothing that will help him on the test. It’s not a cheat sheet.”

  “Well suppose you bring these ‘notes’ to me,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “and I’ll be the judge.”

  Maggie dutifully picked up her memo to me and took it to the teacher.

  “Thank you, Miss McPherson. Alan can pick these up after class if they are what you say they are.”

  The rest of the class followed this exchange with mild curiosity. Maggie had no reason to give me—of all people—a cheat sheet. She’d risk failing and so would I. So there were a couple of giggles in the class as she took her “notes” to Mr. Greer. And a bit of wonder, too.

  It was probably ten minutes into the test that Mr. Greer finished his up-and-down-the-aisles inspection of the class. Obviously there were no other cheat sheets either in paper or scribbled on visible human flesh. The only suspicious document was waiting up on his desk.

  I was halfway into some mind-numbing trig problem when Mr. Greer picked up Maggie’s notes. He began reading. Then he began smiling. And finally he started to laugh. He laughed so hard he had to say “excuse me” to the kids in the first row.