Parts & Labor

by Mark Gimenez

  Max Dugan had hit a home run.

  A walk-off grand slam to win the game 4-3. I jogged around the bases like the pros do and jumped on home plate with both feet. My teammates mobbed me and hoisted me onto their shoulders, and the spectators gave me a standing ovation, like I was a big-leaguer who had just hit a home run to win the World Series. I glanced over at Norbert. He was smiling. Mom was crying, Scarlett's mouth was hanging open like that time we had walked into Güero's and come face to face with Matthew McConaughey, and Maddy was jumping up and down and clapping her hands. I had done something that no ten-year-old or eleven-year-old or twelve-year-old kid had ever done in league history: I had hit a ball out of the park. Dead straight over the 295' sign in center field. Vic had pulled off his catcher's mask, but he remained frozen in place behind home plate, staring at the outfield fence with a stunned expression.

  "How'd he do that?"

  Boy, I wished my dad could have seen that.

  six

  After my games, Dad would always carry Maddy on his shoulders over to the concession stand, and we'd walk next to him. He was big and he was strong and he made us all feel safe. The world didn't feel as safe without him. Someone slapped me on the back hard enough to knock me off stride.

  "I knew you could do it, Max."

  Coach Slimes. Grinning down at me as he walked past, as if I'd forgotten his "Don't swing, Max!" instructions and all was forgiven. I hadn't, and it wasn't. So I just nodded back. We were walking to the concession stand. When Coach was far enough away not to hear, Mom said, "What a jerk." I liked Mom when she said stuff like that, when she didn't worry about being a role model for us, when she was just a regular person who thought Coach Slimes was a big fat jerk, too.

  "Excellent home run, dude," Norbert said.

  "Man, I was really in the zone."

  I stuck my fist out to Norbert. He stared at it with an odd expression.

  "Are you attempting to strike my body?"

  "What? No, dude, I'm giving you a fist-bump." Being home schooled, he obviously didn't know how to properly execute a fist-bump, so I said, "Make a fist."

  He did.

  "Stick it out to me."

  He did.

  "Now we bump fists."

  We did.

  "That's a fist-bump."

  "And what is the purpose of this act?"

  "It's a male-bonding type of thing, like a chest-bump."

  "And what is a chest-bump?"

  Man, that's sad.

  "Congratulations, Kate," a passing dad said. "You got a real hitter there."

  "Uh, thanks." When the dad was gone, Mom turned to me and said, "Why is he congratulating me? I didn't hit the home run. You did."

  "Oh, that's daddy ball," I said.

  "Daddy ball?"

  "Yeah. The dads get to bask in the glow of their sons' glory. With you, I guess it's mommy ball."

  "Max," Scarlett said, "that home run was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. How'd you do it?"

  "I told you. I have superpowers."

  She didn't laugh this time.

  We walked past Vic and his boys hanging out on a bench. I didn't tell Mom that they were the bullies who crushed my iPod because she might get in their faces and call the cops—or at least their parents. They gave me a look all the way past, like they didn't know what to think of me. Of course, I didn't know what to think of me, either. Once we were past them, Vic called out, "Who's the dwarf, Dugan?"

  I ignored him, but I glanced at Norbert. He didn't seem to know Vic had meant him.

  "Great hit, Max," another player said as he jogged past.

  People were pointing at me and saying stuff like, "Big hit there, Max," and "Way to go, Max," and "You da man, Max." A little kid stopped me and asked for my autograph. "You're gonna be famous one day," he said.

  Mom dug a pen out of her purse, and I signed the kid's Hot Tamales box. He skipped off like I had made his day.

  "That's got to make you feel good," Mom said.

  It did.

  A boy whistled at Scarlett, but she ignored him. At the concession stand, more parents and kids slapped me on the back. A girl Scarlett knew came up to her and said, "Scarlett, your little brother's a real stud."

  "Max?"

  The girl left, and Scarlett said, "Max, you made us famous. It's like a reality TV show."

  For the first time in my entire life, I felt special. Like maybe I wasn't the lame second child after all. I stood there and basked in the glory of a grand slam while Norbert gazed at Scarlett like she was an ice cream cone.

  "Her beauty haunts my thoughts," Norbert said.

  Boy, he had it bad.

  I inhaled the aroma of concession stand food. I often heard the neighborhood moms talking about all the great restaurants in Austin (after they talked about Mrs. Cushing), but for my money there's nothing better than concession stand food. Hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy—I loved cotton candy, but when I bought a stick earlier in the season, I got teased brutally for carrying a big pink fluffy gob of spun sugar. So I didn't buy cotton candy anymore. Now, standing there and staring at the cotton candy machine, it was like looking at a favorite toy from my childhood.

  Game day was one of the few times we could have food that was bad for us, so I always made the most of the opportunity. The concession stand lady handed me my foot-long hot dog. It felt warm in my hand. I stepped over to the condo … conda … condominium table and squirted two lines of mustard the length of the hot dog then took a big bite. Man, that tasted good. Mom smothered Maddy's hot dog in ketchup, which was dangerous because she might slap the thing on her head.

  "What do you want on your hot dog, Norbert?" my mom asked.

  Norbert stared at my hot dog as if he'd never seen one before.

  "Mrs. Dugan, your food often gives me gas. Do you think a hot dog would give me gas?"

  Mom laughed. "Our food?"

  "Everything gives Max gas," Scarlett said.

  I nodded. "That's true."

  "You've never had a hot dog?" Mom asked.

  "No, I have never experienced a hot dog."

  Mom and I glanced at each other. Home schooled.

  "Dude, you gotta try one. Hot dogs are, like, one of the greatest inventions of mankind. Well, maybe except for cotton candy—I mean, how can they make sugar do that?"

  Mom handed a hot dog to Norbert.

  "You want mustard on it?" I asked.

  "I do not know mustard."

  I squirted a line of mustard the length of the dog. Norbert looked at it oddly, then took a big bite. He smiled.

  "Excellent."

  I nodded. "All beef."

  Norbert downed his hot dog in four big bites then stuck his fist out to me. I gave him a fist-bump.

  "Max," Mom said, "I think a home run deserves Amy's."

  "Yes!"

  Norbert farted loudly then nodded. "The hot dog gave me gas."

  Amy's Ice Cream is an institution in Austin. I think it's the best ice cream in the world, although I've never had ice cream anywhere else in the world, except one time when we went to the beach on Padre Island. The Amy's on South Congress across from the Austin Motel is a little walk-up place with a big board on the outside wall which displayed that day's flavors: sweet cream, white chocolate, Mexican vanilla, Belgian chocolate, black velvet, pistachio, just vanilla, and coffee. My mom's favorite was white chocolate. My dad's was sweet cream. Mine was Mexican vanilla with crushed Oreos in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone. (Hey, when we go to Amy's, I go for the gold.)

  "What flavor would you like, Norbert?" Mom asked.

  "Do you think ice cream would also give me gas?"

  Mom laughed again.

  "Don't tell me you've never had ice cream either?" I said.

  "No. I have not."

  "What planet are you from? Norbert, you gotta try Amy's ice cream. It's awesome."

  Norbert eyed my cone.

  "Here, you can have mine," I said. "I haven't licked it yet."

  I he
ld it out to him. He hesitated, then took it. Then he sniffed it.

  "Go ahead," I said. "Get down on that bad boy."

  "I am not a bad boy," Norbert said.

  "Not you. The cone."

  "The ice cream cone is a bad boy?"

  "Just lick the dang thing."

  He licked it. His eyes lit up.

  "Dude, ice cream is even more excellent."

  "I know my ice cream."

  I ordered another one. When we all had our cones, we piled into the Suburban and drove to Scarlett's football game.

  "Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Tigers! Tigers!"

  An eighth-grade football game isn't like the pros. But the players try to play like the pros. They wear the same gear and hit each other helmet first, going for the "big hit" the fans love. I didn't play football for three reasons: One, every year boys in Texas break their necks playing youth football; B, Mom wouldn't let me; and third, I wasn't big, strong, or fast.

  Norbert gazed at Scarlett cheering and jumping and somersaulting on the sideline with the other cheerleaders like he was star-struck. It's really embarrassing when a younger boy gets a crush on an older girl. Especially when the older girl is your sister.

  "I like her round bouncy things," Norbert said.

  "Hey, dude, that's my sister."

  "The green and gold are an appealing color combination."

  "What? Green and gold?" I looked back at Scarlett. "Oh, you mean her pompoms."

  "I like her pompoms."

  The cheerleaders somersaulted on the sideline.

  "So the females cheer the males?" Norbert said.

  I shook my head. Man, did he ever get out?

  "Of course."

  "Why do the males not cheer the females?"

  "Because girls don't play football."

  "Where I come from, the females are the stronger of the species."

  I nodded. "I heard California was different."

  "The cheerleaders, they are quite good."

  "You should see the pro cheerleaders."

  "Females are paid to cheer the males?"

  "No. Guys are paid to play football, and girls are cheerleaders. They don't get paid anything."

  "Then why do they cheer?"

  "So they can get on reality TV shows."

  Norbert nodded. "Ah."

  After the game, Scarlett came over to us and said to Mom, "Can I go shopping with Chrissie at the mall?"

  "Honey, I can't afford to buy you new clothes."

  "I know. I'm just going to help her accessorize. She has no fashion sense."

  "You're okay with that?"

  Scarlett shrugged. "It's entertainment. Like going to the movies."

  She was good about money being tight now. Like I said, she's the perfect child.

  "Norbert, don't stare at that stuff—it's creepy."

  We had returned home, and I took Norbert upstairs to show him my room. The bathroom door was open, and Scarlett's personal items were hanging on the shower rod. Norbert had stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't have a sister, so this was all new to him.

  "I find it oddly fascinating."

  "Dude, that is just wrong."

  I pulled him away and into my room before he suffered brain damage. I showed him my science fiction books, my telescope, my chessboard, the Legos, and the Ripstik I got for Christmas.

  "And what is the purpose of this device?"

  "You ride it." I turned it over. "See, it's a caster board. These two wheels, they're casters. You stand on it and swivel your hips and it goes. I'll show you later."

  "I would enjoy seeing you ride your Ripstik."

  I turned the solar system lamp on. Norbert knew every planet and galaxy.

  "My dad fixed my room up like this, with the black ceiling for the lamp. I'd love to be an astronaut, travel into outer space."

  Norbert pointed at the Star Wars poster over my bed.

  "I am not aware of the Star Wars."

  "It's a great movie. That's Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Jabba the Hutt."

  "It was not an actual war?"

  "You haven't seen Star Wars? The force be with you?"

  "What force?"

  "What about Men in Black?"

  Norbert shook his head but pointed at the poster. "That is an amusing quote."

  "Star Trek?"

  Another shake of his head. Man, I was so glad I wasn't home schooled.

  "Dude, these are like the best movies ever made."

  I dug the Star Wars DVD out of my closet and put it into my player. Norbert started laughing during the first scene—"This Darth Vader is hilarious! A villain with nasal congestion!"—and hadn't stopped laughing when the movie ended.

  "That is the funniest movie I have ever seen."

  "It's not a comedy."

  "Jabba the Hutt, the Sand People, the life forms in the bar—I have never seen creatures like those in my entire existence."

  "Well, duh. No one has, Norbert. They're aliens."

  "In what universe?"

  "Hollywood."

  "Hmm. I did not see any such creatures during our time in Los Angeles. But, I did not get out much."

  "Wait till you see the SoCo creatures."

  He picked up the broken iPod off my desk.

  "Max, may I have this?"

  "Yeah, sure, it's worthless now."

  He put the pieces in his pocket then stepped over to the Lego bin. I picked up two pieces and showed him how they connected.

  "I see," he said. "These little bricks interlock."

  "Yeah. You build things with them."

  "What?"

  "Whatever you want. Buildings or cars or robots."

  My stomach felt funny. The hot dog had come back to haunt me.

  "Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom. You can play with the Legos."

  I was gone for ten minutes tops. I swear. When I walked back into my bedroom, I stopped just inside the door. I know my mouth was hanging open. Norbert had built a white Lego building that stood three feet tall.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "I connected the bricks."

  "That's amazing. What is it?"

  "The Taj Mahal in India."

  "Legend Jones," I said, "he's the greatest basketball player ever, except maybe for Jordan."

  "Jordan who?"

  The poor kid.

  "Michael Jordan. He was a basketball player, then he invented Nike sneakers."

  "What is a Nike?"

  I shook my head. "Dude, you've got to get out more."

  We had come downstairs to the den where we had a TV and the family computer, a Mac. Dad said we could have bought two PCs for the same price, but Mom said Microsoft was an even bigger corporate conglom … one of those … than Starbucks. I turned on the TV and clicked through the eight Spanish channels and four English channels until I found the Austin Armadillos preseason basketball game, but the reception was grainy with only the rabbit ears. We had to cancel cable.

  We didn't usually watch sports in the den. That was the female Dugans' TV. Mom and Scarlett watched Dancing with the Stars, Amazing Race, Biggest Loser—boring stuff like that. Dad and I watched sports out in the man cave. But since I no longer went into the man cave, I watched sports here in the den. But not as often now.

  "You have many athletic contests in America," Norbert said.

  "Oh, you should see cable, there's like a hundred sports channels. But it's too expensive now." I gestured at the TV. "That's why we don't get good reception."

  Norbert stepped over to the TV and fiddled with the rabbit ears and … the picture suddenly became perfectly clear.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "I adjusted the mechanism."

  "Sweet."

  We sat on the couch and watched the game.

  "Number one, that's Legend Jones," I said. "Six-ten power forward, he averages thirty-seven points per game. Leads the league. Legend grew up here in Austin, played at UT—he even graduated—then he turned pro wi
th the Austin team, now he makes like, fifty million a year. He lives in a mansion on the lake, rides around in a long black limo with plates that say 'Legend'—I heard he has a hot tub in there—and he owns a restaurant called 'Legend's' in downtown. He wears diamond earrings, and he's even got his own line of apparel and shoes."

  Just then the game went to commercial—a Legend Jones sneaker commercial. "Buy my sneakers, be a star," Legend said with a big smile.

  "Those cost a hundred and fifty bucks," I said.

  "Like the bullies' sneakers on which you regurgitated?"

  "Regurgitated?" I heard my mom say that word once; it was a nurse kind of word. "Oh, you mean hurled? Yeah, like those." I again smiled at the memory, like Mom recalling when we were born. "That was amazing."

  "Max, are you going to war?"

  After the game, I had gone upstairs to get my Ripstik to show Norbert how it worked. When I walked downstairs, he jumped back.

  "War? What do you mean?"

  "You are clad in armor."

  I had put on my bicycle helmet so I didn't hit my head on the concrete and suffer a closed-head injury—being a nurse, Mom worried about stuff like that—my elbow pads, wrist pads, knee pads, and soccer shin guards. I had a hard time walking.

  "Oh. My mom won't let me ride my Ripstik without pads and a helmet. I'm injury prone."

  We went out to the front sidewalk. It was a quiet day in the neighborhood. Usually on a nice afternoon there would be dads mowing lawns and washing cars and walking dogs and admiring Mrs. Cushing's garden; but today, the neighborhood was quiet. Then I remembered: the Texas Longhorns football team played Oklahoma on TV today. So all the dads were inside watching the game.

  I put the Ripstik down then carefully stepped on, first my left foot and then my right foot. I wobbled and had to step off three times before I finally got my balance. I held my arms out and swiveled my hips and the Ripstik moved a few feet, but really slowly. I wasn't very good at this sort of thing.

  "That's the idea, anyway," I said. "The faster you swivel your hips, the faster you go."