by Manuel Ramos
Plenty of hype about the current crop of players. Sure, they were good. Who wouldn’t want Canseco, or Valenzuela? And some of them born in the States. But they couldn’t be bat boys for Cepeda, Aparicio, Marichal or Zorro—Zoilo Versalles, MVP that year it all changed for Ray. He had read about these players when he was growing up, had kept their cardboard images in a box with his glove. They were the men who inspired the skinny, quiet Raymond López.
He had been fast. Fifty stolen bases his senior year, good hands, a better bat. Ah, but his arm. ¡A toda madre! A cannon that made him famous, a starter for four years at North High and a City League All Star right fielder. That arm generated a couple of calls from bald, short guys in plaid sport coats who said they were scouts. Talk about characters! Smoking their smelly cigars, going on about the big leagues like Ray was the next bonus baby and it was right around the corner.
“Just sign this contract and we’ll hook you up in the Instructional League, buy your momma a house one of these days, boy. A little extra in it (and for you, too, Mr. Scout, as long as you got my name on a piece of paper that locks me in forever, but if, just if, mind you, if I don’t cut it, phfft! So long, boy!) We’ll even cover your bus ticket to spring training.”
Mamá wanted Ray to continue with school, a community college, and that was fine with the scouts, but they couldn’t provide any help.
“Let’s see how you do against stiffer competition, boy, then we can talk about financial assistance.”
And then the scouts shook their heads, flicked the ashes off their cigars and walked away, muttering about the waste of time, late for the next Latin or Black or farm kid with the strong arm, fast legs, quick bat.
Clemente. Had to be included. Roberto Clemente. Nice picture, good looking guy, for a P.R. First Latin in the Hall of Fame. Exactly 3000 hits. Lifetime .317. Played in fourteen World Series games and hit in every one. The long throw to Sanguillén at home, right on the money, and you’re out! Yeah, yeah, everyone knew about the New Year’s Eve mercy mission, the horrible plane crash and the special election to the Hall of Fame. So what? Ray knew what was really important about Clemente.
No mention, this time, of how they all hated him. Even Ray understood that and he was just a kid during that 1960 season when the writers bypassed “Bob” for MVP and gave it to Groat. Clemente had to wait six years, and by then Ray had forgotten about a baseball career.
The usual quote not included.
“The Latin player doesn’t get the recognition he deserves. Neither does the Negro unless he does something really spectacular.”
Not that kind of feature.
Ray trimmed the pages of the article, carefully applied glue to the edges and gently centered them in a scrapbook. He waited for the glue to dry, took one last look at Clemente, then returned the scrapbook to the makeshift shelf where it sat with a dozen other scrapbooks. He threw the rest of the paper in the trash. It was time for Christina, and he had to get ready. He pushed himself into the bathroom and began the ordeal of cleaning his body.
The hot towel felt good on his arms and chest. Of course, he couldn’t feel it on his legs, what was left of them. Only three weeks since her last visit and he was horny as a teenaged kid. Business had been good, thank God. Pumping his sax for the tourists down in LoDo might not sound like a real gig but he made enough to pay the rent on his dump, eat a couple times a day and every once in a while buy a bottle of Old Crow, or something close.
He anticipated her touch, her mouth, the feel of her breasts in his hands, the sounds she made when he worked his Chicano magic on her. God, he was hot already. Think of something else, man, don’t get too worked up, or Christina won’t have anything to do.
Lefty Gómez, half-Spanish, half-Irish. Ray couldn’t believe it when he read about Lefty in the Baseball Almanac. He assumed that the great Yankee pitcher, winner of the first All Star Game, was a Chicano from California (he wouldn’t have been Chicano, of course—what would they have called him back then?), but there it was, half-Spanish, half-Irish. A cover? Apparently not. “El Gómez,” “Goofy.” Colorful nicknames for a colorful personality, everyone said. One of the greatest, but Ray still felt disappointment because Lefty wasn’t raza.
Ray had a way with baseball. He knew from the day he picked up a bat and hit his father’s first toss back at the old man and knocked him on his butt. Ray Sr., shouted, “Wise ass,” and threw him some smoke. Ray swung and missed, but he stood his ground and the old man got this gleam in his eyes and a smile about a mile wide. Then he tried a curve, and damn if little Ray didn’t drill it in the direction of first base. Ray Sr., couldn’t spend a lot of time with little Ray, working at night, on the weekends, or on the road, doing anything to hustle a buck, but when he had a few hours they gathered the mitts and balls and bats he had scrounged from second-hand stores and junk dealers, and father and son played ball.
Ray slipped on his cleanest shirt. Christina liked him to be fresh and neat, she demanded it, and at fifty bucks a shot he thought he should try to maintain some standards. She was his last luxury, his only extravagance.
Why would the old man, a wetback orphan with a wife and three of his own kids before he was twenty years old, on the edge of big city desperation, pick up on American baseball? It could be something as simple as playing the game in an overgrown field somewhere on the outskirts of Durango, Mexico. Sneaking in to watch winter ball. Sal Maglie and those other gabacho players who told the major leagues to get screwed, for a couple of years anyway, and then crossed the border to keep in shape, make their fortunes, until they realized where their bread really was buttered. Or it could be—he never let on—that the old man understood the more complex things in life, like the fact that his kids were definitely not Mexicans, and although they carried tags like Chicano or cholo or pachuco, they were American, even if he wasn’t, just not quite as American as the snot-nosed, blond-haired children who wanted to play with little Ray, and what could be more American than baseball?
Nah. The old man just liked to play ball.
He rushed to the door when he heard the knock. Christina waited for him, smiling.
“Ray, how’ve you been? We got to get together more often, baby. I kind of missed you.”
Christina earned her money. She bent over and planted a kiss on Ray’s lips that almost raised him out of the chair, a crane lifting steel girders. She tongued him, rubbed his back, brought him back to life—miracle worker Christina!—then eased up.
“How about a drink, Ray? I got some time.”
Ray poured the last two shots from his bottle, then pulled two beers from the fridge and twisted off the tops with an easy flick. His meaty arms and thick wrists looked as if they could swing a forty ounce bat with the precision of Ernie Banks.
“How’s your boy, Christina? Haven’t seen little Julián for months. Must be big, eh?”
“Jules, Ray. His name’s Jules. He ain’t no Spanish kid. He’s a terror. Can’t keep up with him. He’s got all this energy, the terrible twos.”
She swallowed the shot in one gulp and sipped the beer.
Ray could see the tiredness around her eyes, but he didn’t check her out too closely. She was sensitive about her looks. Ray thought she was fine. She liked to show her legs. She wore tight skirts with slits up the side, or skirts so short that Ray knew before they had a date that she had a rose tattooed on her thigh. Ray told her, often, that she would be surprised how good she would look and feel if she laid off the coke. She needed it, she would answer with a grunt. Her line of work required something to get over, something to take off the edge.
In any event, she was getting old, she said, especially for what she did, and the extra dose of “fire in the blood” kept her on her feet, and her back.
But, damn, Ray was already in his forties, what the hell can you do about getting old? Did Ray Sr., get old, was he even alive, did he ever think about playing catch with little Ray?
“Bring him by, Christina. I’ll show him my scrapboo
ks, teach him how to play ball.”
“Oh, Ray. He’s too little. He’ll tear up your books. Maybe when he’s older. You guys can play catch or something. Or teach him how to play some music.”
Sure, Christina, whatever.
She stretched a line of powder on his wobbly table and snorted it quicker than Ray could get it together to object.
“Oh yeah,” she whispered.
Her eyes glazed and a faint reddish tint crept up her jaw line. She breathed deeply for a few minutes, then she shook her head and gave Ray one of the smiles that filled his dreams. She walked around the room, stepping out of pieces of clothing, and Ray watched in silence. He loved it when she stripped for him. Lacy black things with hooks and straps hung on her skin, jiggling when she moved slowly towards him. The rose sat like a bruise on her leg, warm and swollen, ready for his caress. She stood at the edge of his desk, turned away from him so that he could watch her wiggle her ass.
“Ray, you never showed me this. Wha’s it?”
She held a baseball in her hands.
“Uh, Christina, be careful. My old man got me that. Here, give it to me.”
And although he didn’t want to ruin the mood, he rolled to her with a little too much speed, a little too much urgency in his response, and snatched the ball from her hand.
“I’s jus’ a ball, ain’t it?” Her words slipped out half-formed. She wasn’t wiggling anymore.
Ray relented. He handed it back to Christina.
“All right. But be careful. See, there it is, Roberto Clemente’s autograph. The old man got it for me one time when he worked in L.A. Clemente signed it before a game with the Dodgers. He’s dead, you know.”
“Your old man?”
“Clemente. Plane crash. The ball’s worth a lot of money. But it’s about the only thing I got from my old man, so it’s kind of special to me.”
Christina returned the ball to its space on Ray’s desk.
“You kept it all these years? How old’s it?”
“Early sixties. I was a kid. Actually, I lost it, didn’t know what the hell happened to it. But when my mother died, I came back from Nam for the funeral, and there it was in a box with her rosaries, pictures and mantillas. She didn’t have much. For some reason she kept this old ball.”
Christina watched him drift away. His scarred face saddened, his body slumped in the wheelchair. She took his head in her hands and held him against her, smoothed the strands of wispy hair and helped Ray in the only way she knew.
Clyde tried to stay calm. But handling his habit was not an experience that lent itself to calmness. And making the money by breaking into houses, apartments and an occasional second-hand store, the kind that should not have alarms, only added to the tension. No wonder he always felt tired—except when he was riding the blow, of course. Then he could do anything, anytime, anywhere. Make love to the most beautiful woman. Pull off the most outrageous heist in thief history. Kick ass. Be the man.
Ripping off old Ray’s sax didn’t exactly fall into the historical category. Stealing the cripple’s instrument, Ray’s source of income, probably ranked as outrageous—pitiful but outrageous.
He tried to explain to Linda but she didn’t get it.
“I can get twenty, thirty bucks for the sax. Ray keeps it in good shape. Take me five minutes to get it, maybe. His lock’s gotta be a joke. And what can Ray do about it if I get in his crib and yank the sax? Not a damn thing. Nothin’.”
Linda arched her eyebrows.
“But, crap, Clyde. It’s Ray. He don’t harm no one. He’s a little weird, but who around here ain’t? And you know him, man. He knows you, too. What if he sees you? What if he turns you into the cops? You ready for that?”
Clyde knew there was one thing he definitely was not ready for, and that was another lock-up. He refused to consider the possibility.
“No way there’s any risk. Ray drinks himself to sleep every night. Calls the juice his Oblivion Express. I heard him talkin’ about it one day when he was on the corner playing for handouts, explainin’ to that Jesus Saves preacher why he can’t get up early for the coffee and donuts and sermon at the center. Goes out like a match in the wind. And in his chair, you think he’s goin’ to pull any hero stuff? Come on, it’s a setup. Made for Clyde the Glide, smoothest second-story pro on the West Side.”
Linda shook her head but she knew it was hopeless. And maybe Clyde could scrape enough together for a line or two, if he did an all-nighter and hit at least a half-dozen places. Ray’s sax by itself wouldn’t pay for a taste, much less a good time. It was stupid but it was Clyde’s lifestyle, so to speak. To each his own.
Ray slept curled in a ball in his chair, clutching the saxophone he dreamed was his rifle. The street below his room shook with the noise from buses and taxis, ambulances screaming their warnings to the dealers, pimps and winos prowling Ray’s neighborhood. He slept through it all. He prowled, too, but the thick jungle that surrounded him held more terror than the actors in the midnight street scene could conjure in their wildest, drug-induced fantasies. He moaned and twisted his blanket into a sweaty, crumpled rag, but he slept.
The door creaked—damn cheap lock—and Ray’s eyes jerked open. For a horrible, ridiculous second, slant-eyed killers hovered around him, poked at him with their weapons, and Ray whimpered. The door eased shut and a shadow moved around the room. Street lights bounced off the gleam of a knife blade.
“Get the hell out of here!”
Before the guy could react, Ray wheeled into the back of the intruder, rammed and knocked him over.
“What the . . . !”
The knife flew across the room. Clyde crawled across the floor, looking for the weapon, trying to regain the advantage. Ray ran over groping hands. A feeble scream mixed with the loud crunch of fractured bone. The thief struggled to his feet, turned around in circles, lost in the darkness, defenseless against the crip he thought would be easy. Ray moved smoothly, effortlessly. His strong, solid fingers grabbed the first thing they touched and flung it at the man. Dazed, Clyde stumbled out the door and collapsed at the bottom of the stairs.
Ray’s neighbors flicked on their lights, threw open their doors, some with guns in their hands, and kicked the intruder sniveling on the stained, muddy carpet.
Ray wheeled to the hallway and picked up his baseball. The ink had been smeared by the impact on the burglar’s greasy skin.
He held the ball with his vise-like grip and carefully, slowly, used a Sharpie to fill in the words Roberto Clemente over the smudge.
Someone nudged his shoulder.
“Better get that door fixed, Ray. I walked right in. You okay?”
“Yeah, Art. Guess I still got my throwing arm. I think I know that guy. You recognize him?”
“No way. Dirty creeps around here. About time one of them got it. You really clobbered him. What the hell you hit him with?”
“This ball. Check it out. My old man gave it to me, about the only thing I got from him. It’s worth some money, but it means more to me, it’s kind of special. Sentimental value and all that.”
2012
The taquitos are crunchy, tasty, better when dipped in the queso fundido sauce. You try to eat while you read Bolaño’s story in The New Yorker. You know you won’t finish the piece. You haven’t finished anything by him since Distant Star (you loved it). Did not start 2666.
The noisy restaurant is crowded, like so many places at the beginning of the new year. Is it approved to call this business, with its uniformed help, fast-food counter, mass-produced dishes and serve-yourself-salsa table, a restaurant? You easily could develop minor hysteria over the commotion and chaos but you feel at ease because the entire staff, visible to every customer as they frantically prepare burritos, salads and chicken bowls, is Latino. That is to say, dark, foreign and accented, like you.
The cooks prepare several dishes at once, then slide them onto a gleaming metal shelf. A man, slightly older than the others but still young, takes the completed
orders and barks out numbers. “Ninety-five. Ninety-six. Eighty-nine.” Customers look at their receipts. The lucky ones get their orders quickly. Those who asked for extra cheese or a substitution of pinto for black beans, wait longer. These often ask the number barker if he missed their number. He always says no.
You are not the only dark-skinned patron but you are outnumbered by the mostly youthful, mostly white lunchtime customers who have escaped their employment for a quick meal. Why do you persist in thinking in racial terms? You have been hobbled for as long as you can remember by covert restraints, imposed by outside antagonists or adopted by you in defense. What is worse—the hobbles or the waste of time contemplating their origins?
You give up on the story and turn your attention to the girl waiting at the counter in the teal leotards and feathered hat. Her ass is appealing. She rubs the palm of her left hand across her right shoulder. A thoughtless gesture, by which you mean she did not think about it before she made it, not that she is careless. The provocative movement causes the man behind her to smirk as though he knows what she intended. You are aware that every man in the restaurant watches her. A few women nod. They are in on the secret, whatever that may be. The girl moves from the counter to wait for her order. Her lipstick is striking. Perhaps you are intrigued by her lips, which are fleshy and recall plums or a peeled orange. You drop your eyes when she looks in your direction. You remind yourself that she is very young and then you are struck by how obnoxious that would sound if you uttered it aloud. You focus on your food.
You close the magazine but not before you jump pages and read the last words of Bolaño’s story. “He has an erection and yet he doesn’t feel sexually aroused in any way.” You cannot ignore the conclusion that you are aroused and yet you do not have an erection, in any way.