by Charles Bock
Las Vegas had mythic status as a party town among other minor leaguers, with more than a few former teammates settling there. A catcher with arthritis in both knees offered hospitality and Lincoln accepted and drove down for a visit. At the time the Strip was still in the larval stages of its now epic transformation: financed in part by junk bonds, a maverick hotelier had constructed a pair of large five-star resort complexes a half a mile away from one another. Each resort was wildly successful, and therefore served as the forerunners in what would become a cycle of resorts that were as much city-states as they were hotels. By the time Lincoln hit town, construction had begun on a new billion-dollar MGM, whose façade and towers would be shrouded in green light in a tribute to the emerald kingdom of that studio's most famous film. Hotels with Egyptian and medieval themes were also at early stages of development. It was the ground floor of a boom time that would last more than a decade: bodies were needed to put down carpeting, wash sheets, maintain gardens, and pick up trash in parking lots. Jobs were available teaching the children of all these new hotel employees and manning the post offices that sent alimony payments back to former spouses. Since all these newly transplanted employees needed to live somewhere, even more construction jobs became available. And since there was no end to the desert, untold space existed for more master planned communities, which meant rents were pretty cheap. Topping it all off, the state had no sales tax, so a fella could make his nest egg last, were he so inclined.
The town was open all night and Lincoln made the most of every hour. Without much effort on his part, he was absorbed into the social circle of entry-level casino workers. A lifetime in locker rooms, the ease with which he deflected sarcastic jibes, the good humor he showed in handling teammates who were both joking with him and sizing him up (Lincoln gracefully giving as good as he got; though never going so far as to offend someone or leave them feeling worse about themselves), this translated well to the masculine, vaguely gangsterish backroom atmosphere of Las Vegas. At the same time, Lincoln was square-jawed and athletic and handsome in a way that was reassuring, as opposed to threatening or overtly sexual; a guy self-assured enough to know when to step back and let someone else be the star. This went over well with the corporate regimes that were coming into power. And while Lincoln still may not have been able to watch the World Series, he didn't blink when it came to telling stories about the minors, or giving the skinny on different major leaguers he'd met on their way up. This played equally well with gangsters who enjoyed pretending they were legitimate businessmen and suits who fancied themselves as modern-day Bugsy Siegels. Before Lincoln had fully accepted that Vegas was the place he wanted to settle down, he'd taken a job as a sales representative at the Kubla Khan. Thus his vacation had become something else, and though he wasn't sure what precisely that might have been, he knew the money was good, and the work wasn't too hard, and soon enough he'd spent a year there, then two, and was still enjoying his life in the manner of any twenty-two-year-old sales rep—working the barter system in which so many low-level casino residents were engaged. (On a date Lincoln and his girl might receive a night of drinks. Later the bartender would get comped at a pricey steakhouse where Lincoln brought a lot of business, and was in tight with the headwaiter, who Lincoln might then hook up with a ticket agent. . . .) He tipped big wherever he went, this was good karma, and besides he always wanted to show his appreciation for an honest effort. He knew how to show a woman a good time. More than a few beauties were seen on his arm. Then one in particular.
They'd been going out for half a year or so when Lorraine told him she was pregnant. She hadn't returned his calls for a few days, and then she phoned him at work and said there was something they needed to talk about. She refused to answer his inquiries, but there was a hitch in her voice and she said, See you soon, okay? Lincoln ruminated on that hitch throughout the drive to her place, all the possibilities it contained. He was sure she was breaking up with him and his mind raced for possible reasons, and the lack of anything obvious was that much scarier. The day was a model of climate-controlled perfection, bright as a newly minted penny. Lorraine sat him down. In the manner of a kindly yet displeased schoolteacher, she first told him about her suspicions and then how they'd been confirmed, unfurling the details as if they were happening to friends of hers, as if all this had not just exploded their happy little dating adventure. She had been preparing for this all day, but her nervousness still showed, her composure wavering. She hadn't told him sooner, she said, because she'd wanted to hear first from her doctor, and because she needed to think about things before talking to him. She hadn't made any decisions, but she'd been thinking about it a lot. She went into a hard silence that lasted for an unbearable time, then said: Oh God.
She was all of twenty years old and her combination of looks and dancing ability had provided her with an escape from a large family and a dying small town and the smell of horseshit from a nearby industrial farm. After six months of kicking in the back line of the Rockettes traveling squad, she'd gotten an agent, and had come heartbreakingly close to making the dance squad for a professional basketball team. The chorus line of a Vegas floor show wasn't exactly Lorraine's idea of a dream job—she made no bones about her opinion of the choreography, nor the legions of self-styled cowboys, Donald Trump wannabes, and men who thought wearing loud shirts made them classy. Lincoln had had to convince her to give him her phone number, and during a week of respectful calls, she had been restrained and suspicious; although, when screening, she did pick up and talk to him, and eventually allowed him to take her to dinner after her shows, and did let him walk her to her car to make sure she was safe, and one night, after a few glasses of really good wine, she'd opened up to him enough to admit that, yes, she was learning to enjoy having money in her pocket, and that this city did indeed have its strange charms. Lorraine had let him take her to a candy factory on their first date and not long afterward she had taken two sick days and gone away with him on a camping trip to Zion, during which time they'd used the factory's chocolate syrup on each other. Lincoln and Lorraine had confided in each other, more than once broaching how they felt and agreeing there was more to what they were doing than two people just having fun, and though neither one had gone out on the ledge and used the L word, that ledge was not that far away, it was being approached with hopeful, toddler's steps. In light of which, her pregnancy was particularly devastating, sucking the air out of the apartment. Lorraine collapsed onto the couch, looking not at Lincoln but through him, every so often picking up on or returning to a thought, vocally unpacking the options and angles of her predicament. The obvious thing was to terminate it. She loved kids but wasn't anywhere near ready to be a mom. Nothing she knew about Lincoln remotely showed he was prepared to face fatherhood. Each possible outcome was wholly and specifically terrifying to her and a new thought crossed her eyes like a shadow and she fought back some sort of emotion and her face began to crumple. “But then I think about it and God help me I want one.”
He would look back when things were not going well and wonder if that moment had really just been about winning, about conquering the landscape, the underdog bucking the odds and going for the hard route. After all, he had walked away from baseball because he'd thought about all the work and where it would get him, and in the end, it just hadn't been worth it. That had been the biggest decision of his life, until this point, and Lincoln had made it based on the simple thought: do I really want to do this? He remained convinced that walking away had been the right thing to do. Still, it was a lot to live with, a lot to live down. And the question welled within him again. Its implications hadn't sunk in yet, he still had no idea what the words husband and father entailed. But then again, when you got down to it, he didn't really have to be in touch with the long-term implications. Right then, he didn't need to know what he was getting into.
He picked up her phone, called the travel agent who handled all arrangements for Kubla Khan executives. Lorraine stared at him
without comprehension and Lincoln waited on hold and did not tell her what this was about. He did not make a reservation for her to Tijuana, San Diego, or the Scripps Medical Center. Instead he arranged for a pair of families to be able to call the travel office. He arranged for these families to get fixed up with plane reservations for as soon as possible. Lincoln arranged for all charges to go on his own tab, and he told the reservation agent that the only thing was that neither family could know what was going on. Then he asked Lorraine for her parents’ phone number, and repeated the question. Over Lorraine's protestations—Why? What are you doing?—Lincoln dialed the number and introduced himself to Lorraine's father. He said everything was okay, their daughter was more than fine, she was wonderful, better than that. Without so much as a ruffled feather or a hint of his larger intentions, he gave Lorraine's father the number of the ticket agent and told him to make arrangements to get here, the agent was expecting the call. Lincoln then called his own father. In the quiet voice of a grown man talking warmly to his dad, he gave a variation on this theme. Lorraine said she did not know what he was doing, that he was crazy. However, Lincoln could tell she was charmed, maybe even thrilled. I don't know about this, she repeated, her face flush and bright. Lincoln said they better start calling chapels. He asked did she want to go get a ring first.
It was the beginning of his adulthood.
Maybe it had to do with his own slide, entering the region between early and mid-thirties, still young enough to remember all the emotions and joys associated with teen delinquency, yet old enough now to be a little worried by the bumping bass from the car next to you. You reach a point where you look into a mirror and can't help but focus on the shining suggestions of scalp, for they are unavoidable, just beyond the front of your hairline, as if they were spots of lawn picked clean by birds. You find these hard, horizontal creases, like a series of ladder steps, down the middle of your forehead. You stare at yourself and see once-focused facial features suffering the effects of gravity, your eyes and mouth less prominent than they should be, what they once were; what, gradually, is becoming softer, a pie of a face, a face not the one you grew up with, nor the face to which you have long grown accustomed. You reach a certain age and it becomes convenient to blame the dry cleaners for the problems you have buttoning your slacks; it becomes consoling to tell yourself that, so long as you suck in your gut, you still have your ballplayer's physique. You wake up around the crack of dawn and slip into your sweats and running sneakers, and a mile or two later you are slowing to a trot, walking, placing your hands on the gray fabric at your thighs. Your knees get stiff in bad weather. You cannot sleep in the wrong position without aggravating your back. Cannot make it through the night without taking a piss. Certainly, you cannot comprehend death, the world going on, the trees and cars and life continuing onward, absent the presence of your physical and mental self. You cannot possibly fathom an end to your observations about the status of your physical decline, a final finality. Such things are beyond you, as they are beyond anyone; and yet the evidence permeates your days, unavoidably present, oozing from the southwestern décor of a master bathroom, its sandalwood and Iroquois shades, its tastefully papered walls, miniature designs of sea horses and bubble-breathing goldfish.
You stare straight into the confines of your own personal cage, it's understandable if you take consolation in a rich, fatty meal; if getting your wife into the sack constitutes a personal victory; if pounding into her until her body locks and unlocks against her will brings within you a satisfaction that is more sadistic than generous. You hit a certain point in your life, fact is, you clemently rejoice in your son's truancy, you actually want your child out on the town, disobeying orders, breaking his curfew, chugging a few beers—although Newell was too young for chugging, wasn't he? Well, then, out tasting his first beer. Chasing a good time. Trying to eat the world.
Lincoln's son was bigger than the world. The world could go to hell in comparison to his Newbie.
The ceiling fan continued its efficient hum, muting the faraway sounds that drifted through the south window—a time-activated sprinkler system in rotation, the neighbor's dog barking at an imagined intruder. Lincoln jostled his member, dislodging the last squirts, then the last drops, of a piss so satisfying as to be almost celebratory, an end-zone dance to his coital touchdown.
He lifted the cover off of the toilet's basin. His mind was happily unfocused, and he did not care that the Mexicans had never fixed the toilet like they'd promised. He jiggled the rod.
It took three steps to get to the sink. With tired yet practiced motions, he removed his contact lenses, soaked them in saline, and shut them inside their little plastic case. As soon as the lid closed, he remembered the liquid soap—usually you want to wash your hands after they're on your dick, but before they head into the eyes.
He relathered.
Welcome to your future, old man.
If death was beyond comprehension, then having a child had to be one of the more powerful ways a man came to terms with his mortality. Could there be anything more alarming than recognition of your own mannerisms in your son's movements, seeing the physical characteristics you cherished in your wife manifest in him? The seed of the father plants the stalk; every father dreams that the stalk will not linger in his shade or shadow, but will grow bigger and stronger, blooming, his roots extending into previously uncharted territory. The dream is a child who would carry on your dreams and ideals, personalizing them, meeting those new dreams and finding his own successes and happiness: at once validating and perpetuating every bit of love and attention that you had devoted. How easy it was for Lincoln to look back now and appreciate something as simple as his own father showing him the secrets of oiling and breaking in a baseball mitt—first soak the palm and the web with oil, get it good. Okay, now put the tennis ball in there. Squeeze tight, attaboy, you're getting it. And where's the phone book? Behind their tattered shack in Las Cruces, Lincoln's dad had taught him how to get in front of a grounder so that if the ball took a bad bounce, his body could absorb the hit. Lincoln's father also used to rear back and huck the ball up into the starry New Mexico evening, passing hours on end with his only son; handing down secrets like how to judge a ball in the soup, and how to recover when you've lost its flight, and—once young Lincoln showed he knew his fundamentals and was ready—how to look nonchalant as you made a basket catch.
There existed few words to describe what it felt like to watch his own son be just as entertained by the fancy-Dan techniques as young Lincoln had been. For more than half an hour Newell had been into it. Then he'd become antsy, twitching back and forth like a pinwheel in a spring breeze. Where each mistake that Lincoln had made as a child had spurred him to practice harder, his son was physically incapable of holding still for the time it took to learn how to properly hold his mitt: he tried but the ball bounced off the palm of his glove; he settled underneath the pop fly and got scared, at the last second ducking out of harm's way; he got frustrated and threw his glove; he put his mitt on his head and sniggered at his cleverness. During two seasons of Biddy Ball and then another season of Little League, Left Out had been the boy's unofficial position, and he had not seemed to mind, daydreaming his way through the three innings guaranteed to each player, then spending the rest of the contest at the far end of the dugout, suspiciously near the cooler of postgame soda. Each game, in his single at bat, Newell consistently unleashed lumbering, vicious cuts, and although Lincoln talked to him about being under control, waiting for the right pitch, and the victory of making contact, his words never registered for longer than the ride home. And that was fine too. Lincoln wasn't going to be one of those pathetic bastards reliving his own faded and derailed athletic glories. No, he was just going to be there, rooting through every one of those three required innings of play; supportive when a can of corn that any Nancy could have flagged shot over his son's head, then rolled into the outfield of the game on the next field; patient through every epic swing that
sent his kid staggering out of the batter's box. Be it Little League or the class talent show at the end of the year, winning and losing were less important than doing your best and knowing your dad was there cheering you on. And when a departmental powwow had made him fifteen minutes late for the boy's second-grade play, had anything been so awful as Newell scanning the crowd and becoming so upset he could not go onstage? Had anything been so comforting? And when the next class play came around, who had showed up thirty minutes early, fit himself into a tiny blue chair in the back of the room, and sat through a lesson in elementary division? Who'd run onstage when the boy had slipped during his scene and bawled anew?
Your child scrapes his knee; you bleed. If he is sick, you leave early from the office. Hot Wheels racers and official casino playing cards made a flu-ridden third-grader feel better. Sci-fi action figures took care of a fourth-grader. These days, little less than an all-access pass to a Hollywood movie convention prompted a reaction. The kid had the latest computer systems and all their hardware attachments. His room was plastered with promotional posters from championship fights. He must have had five different Runnin’ Rebels basketball T's (all oversize), as well as a set of UNLV team sweats (so large that Lincoln could fit into them), an official reversible game-day jersey (a goddamn tent), and each style of sneaker the Runnin’ Rebels had worn during their last three seasons—the most expensive of which, naturally, the boy had immediately outgrown. Newell had an official leather basketball autographed by the members of UNLV's national championship team. He had a limited edition ball commemorating the legendary coach's final season. How the kid had turned into such a basketball fan, Lincoln had no idea. One of the neighborhood brats? Someone from school? Like getting hit by lightning in the middle of a snowstorm, it had been a shock impossible for Lincoln to prepare for, a freak of nature that provided no reason to change his daily attitude, and that also made him see things a little differently. Almost overnight, it seemed his stouthearted hotshot was leaping up, jumping to smack the top of every doorway as if it were a backboard, immersing himself in the slang and styles of a game very different from the one dear to Lincoln's heart. And again Lincoln went along. Three separate times during the previous winter, he had been larger than any tender feelings he might have nursed, and had cashed in favors at work, exchanging them for tickets his department used for entertaining prospective clients.