“I believe,” I tell him.
“You think I’m a drunken Indian? You think I’m full a shit? Tell you something, both a you wasichus: you’re full a shit. That’s what I think. You know? I’m going to sleep. Tired a you people.”
He stretches out on the couch and goes to sleep.
Late the next morning, Saturday, he sits up looking miserable. He apologizes for anything he said last night. “Talk kinda crazy when I’m drunk.”
“Me, too,” I say. I tell him not to worry about it.
“Tell you about Vietnam? The bow and arrow?”
“Yeah, but hey, like I said—”
“And the knife?”
“No, just the bow and arrow.”
“I had a knife too. You know?” He grabs his hair and makes a scalping motion and a ripping sound. “I didn’t tell you about that?” He’s on his feet now. “Gimme two dollars. I gotta eat. Buy some soup.”
George says he’ll make some soup for him here, if he’d like, or he can take along some cans. “We’ve got vegetable. We’ve got—.”
“I don’t want your damn soup. I’m no charity case, man.” He turns to me. “Gimme two dollars.”
I give him three, and he leaves.
“He’ll only use it to buy more alcohol,” George says.
I watch Tom walking away. Watch him cross the gray road. Watch him stand there waiting for a car. Watch him standing there …
“So why shouldn’t he?” I say to George. “What else is there for him, you know? What else is there for anybody} Do you know? Can you tell me? You know so goddam much. What about it?”
George works on his pipe, letting me rant on.
That night I go out and get pretty drunk myself.
Amy isn’t in this week at Diamond Jack’s—it’s that bigtitted girl doing jumping-jacks—so after a few beers I drive to Kilgore, to the Indian bar, what the hell.
Ben is there. “Hey! No-Name! Over here!” he tells me, like in the sweat lodge.
I step over someone asleep on the floor—it’s Tom Lame Horse—and sit with Ben and his cousin Charlie Bad Hand, drinking Buddy Wisers, as they call them here. Charlie has his head wrapped in a hospital bandage. Every time I see the guy he’s been in another car accident and has his leg in a cast or his neck in a brace or his arm in a sling—something. I ask about his head, what happened. He just grins and looks at Ben.
“Car,” Ben says.
“He shouldn’t be allowed to drive. No offense, Charlie.”
He nods.
“He don’t drive,” Ben says. “That’s the funny thing, you know? He always gets in the wrong car. Whatever car he’s in, it’s gonna crash. People stopped givin’ him rides, you know? He’s bad medicine. Poor Charlie, huh? Gotta walk everywhere.”
Charlie sadly shakes his head.
“So how’d this happen?”
“Got swiped by a car. Knocked him flying. Show him your ribs.”
Charlie lifts his dirty sweatshirt and shows me the bandages.
I buy him a beer.
I start drinking some shots with mine and get very drunk. I tell Ben and Charlie I understand why the Indian drinks the way he does. I tell them I understand the hopelessness, the feeling that there’s no tomorrow so why not just get drunk, why not just drink yourself into an early grave and be goddam done with it.
Ben says, “Hey, listen, we’re going to Tim White Tail’s. You wanna come?”
“Sure. Why not? What’s the difference?”
“Okay, but you’re gonna have to quit talkin’ like this. You’re kind of a downer, you know?”
The rest of the night is a little spotty.
I remember a lot of people in one room, all Indians, all drinking beer. And I remember at some point Tim White Tail, Ben, Charlie, and Frank One Star begin doing songs, sitting on the floor around a big powwow drum, pounding away, hollering their heads off.
I want to dance, so I do. I dance all around the drummers, doing a little toe-heel, toe-heel, head up, head down. Then someone is standing in my way, with his arms folded. It’s Randy Kills Plenty.
I stop dancing. The song ends. Everyone is quiet.
In the dream I’m always a coward. In the dream I always back away. But I’m not a coward and will not back away. “I’m not afraid,” I say to him. “If you wish to fight, I am ready.” And I strike my heart with my fist. “For it is a good day to die.”
This gets a loud response from everyone—mostly cheering, it seems.
Randy steps up and puts his hand on my shoulder. He shakes his head. “I can’t fight you,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because, man. You’re too fucking silly.”
Outside, it’s dark and raining hard as I get into my Nash. I head back towards Valentine, towards white people, driving fast. Suddenly someone appears in the headlights, standing there grinning: Charlie Bad Hand. But he’s back at the party, drumming and singing. I whip the wheel and stomp on the brakes.
I remember skidding, the tree coming fast, remember at the last moment thinking this is a terrible day to die.
Umpire
CHICAGO AREA ADULT MEN’S BASEBALL LEAGUE SUMMER 1979
The guy in the other bed fell asleep during Charlie’s Angels, so when this nice old volunteer nurse named Abby passed the door I called her in and asked if she would look for a ballgame.
She found Tommy Lasorda yelling at the home plate umpire.
“ Well now,” she said, “he doesn’t look very pleased.”
“Thanks, Abby,” I told her, wanting to watch this.
“So how ya feelin’ today, hon?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“If you need anything else, you just—”
“I will. Thank you.”
Lasorda had his cap turned sideways so he could get right up in the guy’s face, the ump just letting him vent, looking a little bored, in fact. But Lasorda must have said something special because all of a sudden, just like that, the ump threw him out. And after a few more words Lasorda marched off, tossing remarks over his shoulder, the ump ignoring him now, putting his mask back on, pointing at the pitcher to go ahead and throw. And the game resumed.
I never really thought about umpires before, but that was quite cool how he handled that. I especially admired the way he pointed at the pitcher, like saying, Yes, I’m the boss. Now let’s move on.
The rest of the game I kept my eye on him. I enjoyed his strike-three call, like starting up a chain saw, and tried it out—a mistake, with my ribs.
But they were getting better. So was the neck and the knee. And after the game I lay there thinking.
Next day I made some phone calls.
“You’re the boss,” I whisper.
I’m in the parking lot at the trunk of my Nash, getting ready for tonight’s game, my very first behind the plate: cup, shin guards, chest protector, ball bag, brush, clicker, breath mints.
“You … are … the boss.”
I grab my mask, slam the trunk, and stride on out to the field.
In the pre-game ground-rules meeting at home plate, I introduce myself to the opposing coaches and we shake hands. They both know the base umpire—Butter, short for Butter-ball—and all three stand around joking about his beer gut. I give them a minute before interrupting:
“Gentlemen, if we can get started here?”
They trade looks.
Let them. I’m the boss.
After thoroughly brushing off the plate, I step behind the catcher, shout “Play ball,” and here we go, here it comes: my first pitch.
Outside corner at the knees.
“Striiike” and I punch air.
The batter gives me a look but no lip.
I remember to click “strike” on my indicator.
Next one’s a tad low and I grunt, “Ball”
The catcher leaves his glove there, trying to show me up.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, and he tosses the ball back.
Then a foul out of play
and I grab a new ball from the bag at my hip and fire it out to the mound.
“One ball, two strikes!” I announce, holding up the appropriate fingers.
Then an off-speed pitch and the batter freezes, the ball cuts the inside corner of the plate knee-high and I start up a chain saw, hollering, “Haaa!”
Meaning, Strike three, go sit down, I’m the boss.
Two innings go by with barely a peep out of anyone. They can see how locked-in I am, how absolutely certain: that’s a strike, that’s a ball. Not opinions, facts.
Then in the third inning a close play at the plate, all dust and limbs, but the runner’s in under the tag and I fling out my arms crying “Saaaafe!”
The catcher throws a tantrum, jumping up and down in front of me: “No! No! No! No!”
I hold up my hand and tell the fellow, “Enough. Let’s go. Play ball.” And the game resumes.
I’m pretty sure I know what Butter over there is thinking by now:
This guy is good.
Then in the sixth inning I call a strike on the outside corner and the batter turns to me with a look, not of anger, but of genuine amazement: “Are you serious}” he says.
I tell him I’m quite serious. But the look on his face concerns me a little, just a tiny little bit.
The next pitch is exactly as close but on the inside corner and for a moment I hesitate.
“Ball” I decide.
“ What?” cries the pitcher, with the same genuine amazement as the batter on the previous pitch.
And am I imagining this or is the batter smirking to himself, thinking he influenced my call? If that’s the case, I’d like to assure him he is very much mistaken. And although the next pitch is low I decide it may have caught the knees.
“Striiike!”
He drops his arms and shakes his head at the darkness above the lights, his teammates in the third base dugout speaking for him.
“At his ankles, blue!”
“That sucks!”
“Get in the game!”
I don’t look. The call did not suck. The pitch was at his knees. Or thereabouts. And anyway, what about all the good calls I’ve made?
The next pitch is very high and outside.
“Ball”
“Good eye, ump!” from a sarcastic fan.
I don’t hear it.
Yes, I do.
The next one is inside and I call it a ball and nobody squawks and I feel in control again after a little bumpy stretch there. “Full count” I announce, holding up three-and-two fingers.
All right, here we go, you’re the boss, here it comes …
It’s high.
A little.
I think.
Or is it.
I don’t know.
Call something.
“Striiike!”
The batter slams his bat on the plate. “You are fucking pitiful,” he tells me, and stalks back to the dugout.
I don’t have to take that. It’s one thing to say the call is pitiful, but to say I am pitiful, and not just pitiful but fucking pitiful …
I should eject him, I know. But I stand there, hands on my hips, feeling pitiful.
After the inning Butter comes strolling over. “Don’t let these guys get to you. Just start tossing ’em.”
I give a laugh and tell him this is nothing. I tell him he should try umping winter ball in Mexico some time. “Down there if they don’t like a call they come after you—with tequila bottles. I’m not shittin’ ya. Unbelievable.”
He nods, agreeing.
“This is a day at the beach,” I tell him. “This is a walk in the—”
“You like Mexican food?” he asks.
“It’s all right.”
He starts telling me about a Mexican restaurant he goes to a lot.
“Hey, Butter,” a player yells. “Got a full moon!”
“Do it, man,” another says. “Go for it.”
Hands in his pockets, Butter bends his knees a little, throws back his head, shuts his eyes and begins howling.
Everyone laughs, urging him on. And it is funny, this little roly-poly guy letting loose:
“ Ow-ow-owoooooo!”
We’re all laughing together.
Next inning I try being friendlier in the way I make my calls.
Not so bossy.
“Well, that’s a strike. Ju-u-ust caught the corner.”
Or: “That’s a ball. Close, but no cigar.”
It doesn’t work. The first questionable call, they’re all over me again.
They seem to despise me.
When they don’t agree with one of Butter’s calls they say things like, “Aw, Butter, c’mon, man, jeez” When they don’t like one of mine they tell me I’m worthless and pathetic.
They found out I’m not really the boss. That I’m not really anything at all. That I go from job to job to job. That I’m back with my parents now.
That next month I’ll be thirty.
By the eighth inning every pitch looks like a strike and/or a ball. I try to be fair, this time calling it a strike, next time a ball.
I overhear the first baseman asking Butter, “Where’d you get this guy?”
I don’t quite hear Butter’s reply. Sounds like, “Mexico.”
Then, in the top of the ninth, I call a strike on the lead-off batter and he actually bursts out laughing. He holds up his hand for “time” as he staggers out of the box, laughing and shaking his head.
That’s it. I will not tolerate laughter. I whip off my mask and tell him, “You’re outa the game!”
That stops him. “I’m what}” he says.
“Out of the game,” I repeat. “Ejected. Gone.” I point off the field for him to leave.
“What the hell for?”
“Unsportsmanlike laughter. Let’s go.”
“You’re a nutcase. Hey, Butter.”
“Never mind Butter. Off the field. Let’s go. Now.”
Butter comes trotting over. “What’s up?”
“He’s throwing me out for laughing. I can’t laugh? What is this, Russia?
“My call,” I tell Butter, in case he’s thinking of interfering.
“That’s right. Up to you,” he says. “I don’t know what you’ll write in your report, but…”
“Outright and prolonged laughter intending to provoke,” I tell him, as if quoting the Book.
Butter shrugs. “So toss him.”
“Butter!”
“His call, Eddie.”
I decide to be lenient and give this “Eddie” a warning. I point my finger at him: “No more laughter. Not a snicker.” I slam on my mask. “Let’s go. Play ball.”
Butter trots back and Eddie steps into the batter’s box again.
As the pitcher is peering in for the catcher’s sign, I notice Eddie’s bat begin vibrating. I look at him and he’s trembling all over in the effort to keep from laughing. The pitcher, amused by this, steps off the rubber and stands there chuckling softly. The catcher sits back on his heels, giggling along. Then Eddie finally lets go, reeling out of the box, dragging his bat, laughing loud and high. The fielders all join in. I look over at Butter and he turns away, his shoulders working.
I walk off the field.
Driving home, I still have all my gear on, even the mask.
Zen Buddhist Trainee
ZEN MOUNTAIN MONASTERY MOUNT TREMPOR, NEW YORK 1979
This cat keeps staring at me.
I’m sitting in the little lounge area of the crowded dining hall. We’ve got about five minutes before lunch and I’m trying to read an article in one of the Buddhist magazines on the coffee table. It’s an interesting piece about the environmental cost of a single McDonald’s hamburger. But this cat. He’s sitting on the arm of the chair, inches away, staring at me.
I finally stop reading and look at him: What’s your problem?
He continues staring.
I’ve seen him around. He’s black and white and skinny and has some Japanese name, Tojo or
Mojo or something. I’ve heard he’s diabetic. They give him pills for it. The other day I walked into the lounge and about a dozen people were gathered around watching something taking place on the couch. Turned out to be Ryushin, one of the senior monks, trying to give the cat his pill. When he finally succeeded, everyone seemed so glad about it. In fact, not just glad but happy.
I’d like to be that way, you know? Happy because the cat took his pill.
Maybe that’s why he’s staring at me so hard. He’s wondering, What’s someone like you doing in a nice place like this?
I pat the top of his head to show him he’s wrong about me. He cringes at my touch. I shove him off the chair and finish reading my article.
Richard the cook—the tenzo—strikes a stone bell and everyone shuts up and stands facing the little altar near the kitchen entrance. He lights some incense and we all do some chants together. Or they do. I have to get these chants down. Nothing makes you feel more alone than a bunch of people all chanting and you’re not.
Richard carefully lights a candle.
He’s a middleaged guy from Australia, scruffy and spaced-out-looking, but his kitchen is extremely clean and organized and he’s a very good cook. It’s all Buddhist-type food: lots of rice and vegetable dishes, lots of good soup, salads. I don’t miss the meat at all. And after that article about McDonald’s, forget it. No meat. Maybe an occasional cat.
I worked for Richard one afternoon, along with his assistant, a gigantic baldheaded softspoken monk named Gido (all the monks are bald and have Jap names), the three of us in the big clean kitchen, pots and pans and ladles hanging from the ceiling over the big wooden cutting table, all sorts of good smells, and it was raining out. How nice that was.
I wore a gray apron and washed and cut carrots with an extremely sharp little Japanese hatchet. The carrots were these stubby little jobs from the monastery garden, the very carrots I had pulled from the ground only the day before while working with the baldheaded old-lady gardener-monk named Hojin—pulled them from the ground and brought them here and now I was cutting them up for everyone’s lunch. So that was a good feeling.
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