Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “Does anyone else desire refreshment?” Todd asked.

  Nicole looked down at her half-full glass of beer and shook her head. Henry downed what remained of his drink, ice clinking against his teeth. He handed the wide-mouthed, cut-glass tumbler to the bartender. “Stoli and cranberry,” he said.

  “A man of impeccable taste.” Todd grabbed the glass and took his leave to pour a fresh drink.

  “Yeah, Count,” Kern said, “we were just talking about the goodies from the Cab Gods out there last night.”

  “Ah, the end of Spring Break,” I replied. “All those college students returning from their vacations, tanned and refreshed.”

  “It was so nice and quiet while they were gone,” Nicole said.

  “But their absence was a detriment to business,” I replied. “I do not know how I managed to survive the boredom last week. The tedium was so excruciating that even the great joy of the printed word could not save me.”

  “You need something more interesting to read, something you can sink your teeth into,” Nicole replied, taking a small sip of her beer. “Like Seutonius, maybe.”

  “I concur completely,” I replied blandly, ignoring her clumsy double entendre.

  “Too damn busy to read,” Henry said, taking a large gulp of the cocktail Todd had just handed him. “Hell, whoever killed those women, we outta give the fucker a goddamned medal.”

  “Especially with the students back,” Kern said. “Hell, anybody can make money with it that busy, even the Count here.”

  “Thanks to the expert training I received,” I said.

  “And don’t you forget it,” Kern said, taking a long drink from his beer. In a few gulps, the bottle was nearly empty.

  “You want another beer, do you not?” I said.

  “Beggar!” Nicole mocked.

  “The successful cab driver has no shame,” Kern replied. “You can call this job, ‘anything for a dollar.’ The time I picked up this little old lady at Sentry Hilldale and she says, ‘Would you like to earn an extra dollar?’ I said, ‘Sure. What do I have to do?’”

  “What did you have to do?” Henry asked.

  “And was it as good for you as it was for her?” Nicole added.

  Kern laughed heartily, shaking his head and waving the bottle of beer at Todd to get his attention. I put a couple dollars on the bar and shoved them toward Kern.

  “What the hell,” Kern said. “Got about another fifteen minutes before we head to the ballpark. So, Count, how’d you happen to hear Uke’s home run call? You must’ve been pretty bored to cruise the AM dial.”

  “Yes. And I was so bored driving Friday and Saturday night that I listened to the games played on those nights as well. That Uecker is a very funny fellow. During one game, he and the other announcer had a rather earnest conversation about the most ideal ways to toast bread.”

  Henry nodded. “I remember one time hearing Bob talk about winning a cow-milking contest when he played in the minor leagues. He said the cow wouldn’t leave him alone after the contest, that she followed him around for days and that she was a pretty good date.”

  Nicole laughed, then coughed loudly, nearly spitting out the sip of beer she had just taken. She calmed and took another sip. “Kern,” she asked, “do I have time for another beer?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “I haven’t heard my songs on the jukebox yet.”

  Apparently, Todd overheard. “Kern, if you play ‘Mountain Jam’ again, I’m rejecting it. I’ll give you a drink chip, but I don’t wanna hear that song anymore tonight.”

  “Better give me my chip now,” Kern replied.

  Todd shot Kern a mildly angry look and tossed a red disk onto the bar. When it stopped bouncing, I picked it up and studied it. The chip bore the name of the bar on one side and on the other said, “good for one free large drink.”

  “That’s pretty underhanded,” Nicole said in a hushed whisper. “You didn’t have time to listen to that song before the game anyway.”

  “A card laid is a card played,” Kern said, shoving the chip into his pocket. “You want I should give back a free drink chip?”

  “You’re such a mercenary bastard,” Henry said, emptying his drink and putting it down on the bar where it was easily visible to Todd. The bartender promptly picked up the glass and refilled it.

  “Hey, that’s what makes me such a good cab driver.”

  It was not until after seven when the three cab drivers managed to finish their drinks at the same time, and we were able to commence our journey to the ballpark. But who would drive? Henry volunteered, but was quickly vetoed.

  “You’re way too fucked up to drive,” Kern protested.

  “I will gladly drive,” I said. “We can all fit in my Toyota . The Muskies play at Warner Park, right? At Sherman and Northport?”

  “Right, Count,” Kern said, “and thanks. Now, who’s willing to volunteer to explain the action to our good friend here who barely knows baseball from cricket?”

  “I’ll do it,” Nicole said enthusiastically. “You can sit next to me and ask me any questions you want. Before the game’s over, you’ll know everything there is to know about baseball.” She patted me gently on the shoulder, her hand lingering for just a moment.

  Well, at least I was going to find out what a Muskie was.

  ———

  It is rather queer how Americans swear allegiance to these professional sporting franchises, more queer still how so many of the teams have heroic names: The New York Yankees, commemorating that great mercantile tradition that helped build their country; the Dallas Cowboys, commemorating the so-called rugged individualism of the Wild West; and just a general sense of warlike fierceness embodied by Giants, Warriors, Falcons, Hawks and Raiders. However, it does seem these Americans, in their occasional confusion, seem to also honor malapropisms, what with the Los Angeles Lakers and the Utah Jazz.

  This Madison baseball team must not have been very good, having taken their name from a fish. How silly of me not to have realized that this was the diminutive term for the muskellunge, that large, muscular, rather truculent member of the pike family, a great prize for sport anglers, sometimes known to attack ducks and other waterfowl with their sharp teeth, and even, on occasion, humans.

  Signs in the parking lot at Warner Park, at the ticket booth and all around the entrance read, “Go Fish.” At the main gate, someone wearing a costume of bright green nylon with glowing white teeth, crimson eyes and a spiny cobalt dorsal fin greeted fans, shaking hands and accepting warm pats on the back. The giant muskie posed for photographs with children who squealed with delight, and, in general, was on the receiving end of a great deal of genuinely warm adoration.

  It was oddly gratifying to discover that these good Christians were indeed pagans. They worship fish! And why not? Lakes cover this glacier-scoured state of Wisconsin . Fish, the bounty of these sparkling bodies of water, provides sustenance for these good Christians, who, in tribute, make a Friday night tradition of attending fish-eating orgies and make their pilgrimage to Warner Park to pay homage to their Madison Muskies.

  Ritual seemed a large aspect of what people do at the ballpark—ballpark being an apt term. Wembley Stadium is indeed a stadium, whereas this is a park, with a short, chain link fence ringing the field, except for the outfield, which was circumscribed by a ten-foot wall of plywood bearing various advertisements for assorted goods and services, ranging from telephones to tobacco, automobiles to automatic garage door openers. Where Wembley has actual seats, this park merely offered long steel benches. However, Warner Park more than compensated for its lack of majesty with the way it allows one to commune with nature; the grass was neatly groomed and quite lovely, and from the elevated vantage point of the bleachers, there was a nice view of a modest forest, beyond which twinkled Lake Mendota, the last rays of sun sparkling off the lake’s surface.

  Shortly after we had selected our seats, a chipper voice boomed from the public address system, ordering us to stand for the
national anthem. Little surprise that sports and patriotism should go hand in hand; few sports are not analogs of war, and a powerful nation must always have a populace ready, willing and able to go to war, regardless of the relative stupidity of said war.

  Following everyone’s example, I stood as the announcer screeched the song, joined by the several hundred fans, each in their own key. A loud cheer followed the song’s completion, surpassed only by the great expression of joy in our section when a barrel-chested young man appeared, hefting a large plastic cooler.

  “Beer man!” Kern shouted. The vender nodded in acknowledgment of Kern’s hail and quickly climbed to where we sat.

  “I’ll have one,” Nicole said.

  “Me too,” said Henry.

  Kern tapped me on the shoulder, pointing at the beer vender. I shook my head. “Our designated driver,” he said, smiling and patting me gently on the back. Nicole handed me a dollar, which I passed to Kern who passed it to Henry along with a dollar of his own. The beer man removed three cans of beer from the cooler, opened them and poured the contents into plastic cups. Quickly, my fellow drivers had their ballpark-beers, presumably satisfying yet another ballpark ritual.

  “Hey, there’s Leon ,” Henry said, pointing a few rows down toward a swarthy fellow with long, unkempt black hair, a thick mustache and a rather sharply hooked nose. He wore a Muskies cap, which bore the image of a muskellunge wearing a baseball cap and holding a baseball bat with one of its fins.

  “Who, may I ask, is Leon ?” I inquired.

  “He’s sort of an unofficial cheerleader for the Muskies,” Nicole replied. “He’s pretty well known. He works for the state as a computer programmer, but about ten years ago, he was vice president of the University of Wisconsin Student Association.”

  “He looks a bit old to have been a student, even ten years ago,” I commented. Indeed, the fellow looked over forty years of age.

  “I think he used to take just one class,” Nicole answered, “or maybe he was a grad student. I’m not sure. Anyway, he and this guy, Jim Mallon, they were tired of the same-old-same-old stupid shit with student government, so they formed their own party—the Pale and Shovel Party—and got voted into office. They ran the student association for two years.”

  I momentarily played the devil’s advocate. “Is there not an old adage that people get the kind of government they deserve?”

  Nicole did not respond, merely continuing her historical digest. “Leon used to wear a clown suit to senate meetings.” She laughed loudly. “They did some pretty wacko stuff. Like covering Bascom Hill with pink flamingos. They commissioned someone to build a paper mache bust of Lady Liberty right on the ice on Lake Mendota .”

  Action on the field drew my attention to where another ritual seemed to be taking place—the ceremonial throwing out of the first pitch. This night’s honoree was a corpulent commercial developer, more than likely responsible for helping create Madison ’s burgeoning state of urban sprawl.

  After the fellow shook hands with anyone within arm’s reach, the umpire handed him the ball. His throw bounced ten feet in front of the plate and barely managed to roll to the catcher. The fans applauded wildly.

  The Muskie players took their positions throughout the field, and the crowd hushed. The umpire pointed at the opposing batter, then yelled from deep within his gut, “Play ball!”

  Leon rose from his seat, a grin suddenly appearing, giving him an almost cartoon-like animation. “Let’s Go Fish! Let’s Go Fish!” he shouted, clapping his hands together, not in the usual horizontal manner, but vertically, with his arms fully extended.

  Immediately, the whole crowd was chanting, “Let’s Go Fish. Let’s Go Fish,” and clapping in that queer manner.

  “What in the name of heaven are they doing?” I asked Nicole, pointing at the crowd. Henry and Kern were doing it too.

  “It’s the fish clap,” she replied.

  “Fish clap?” There must be too much mercury in the fish these people consume.

  “Yeah, the fish clap.” Nicole started doing it too. “Let’s Go Fish!”

  I watched her do the fish clap, then it dawned on me: those clapping hands were intended to emulate the snapping maw of a vicious muskie.

  If baseball is considered America’s pastime, America is indeed a strange place.

  Scrutinizing the fans, I missed the first pitch, merely hearing the loud “pat” as the ball struck the catcher’s glove and the deep, guttural, “Hu-huh!” of the umpire. The fans cheered louder.

  “What happened?”

  “Strike one,” Nicole said. My expression must have betrayed confusion. “Lesson one, right now. The pitcher throws the ball, and the batter tries to hit it. A pitched ball may be a ball or a strike, depending on whether or not the pitcher throws it in the strike zone, which is in line with home plate, above the knees and below the shoulders. If the batter doesn’t swing at three pitches thrown in the strike zone, he’s out, what’s called a ‘strike-out’. If the pitcher throws four pitches out of the strike zone, the batter is awarded first base. That’s a ‘walk’ or a ‘base on balls’.”

  I nodded and turned back toward the action—or the inaction; the pitcher had not yet thrown another pitch. He bent over and stared toward the batter, shaking his head, shaking his head, shaking his head, before nodding, straightening and throwing. “Pop.” “Hu-huh!”

  “Strike two?” I asked.

  “Very good, Al,” Nicole said.

  “See,” Kern chimed in, “I said he was a fast learner.”

  “The object of the contest is to actually hit the ball, is it not?”

  “Yeah,” Nicole answered. “Put it in play, meaning between the two lines that run all the way from home plate to the outfield. If the batter swings at a pitch, strike or ball, and misses, it’s a strike. If he hits the ball, but not within the white lines, it’s a foul ball, which counts as a strike.”

  The pitcher threw, and the batter swung, barely tipping the ball, sending it flying against the fence behind him. “Like that?” I said.

  “And watch out for flying baseballs,” Henry added. “We’re pretty close to the action. A line drive might come screaming in here, so heads up.”

  The pitcher leaned forward. Shook his head once, then again.

  “Why does the pitcher keep shaking his head like that?”

  “Pitchers are arms with no brains,” Nicole said. “The catcher is signaling to the pitcher what kind of pitch to throw. If the pitcher shakes his head, he doesn’t like the call. When he nods his head, that means he’s in agreement with the catcher, but I’ll tell you, most of the time, it’s the catcher who decides what to throw and where to throw it.”

  The pitcher finally nodded.

  “See how the catcher is sitting toward the outside of the plate?” Nicole said. “He’s called for a pitch away from the hitter as opposed to inside.”

  “Heater,” Kern said.

  “Naw,” Henry countered. “Bender.”

  The batter swung and missed. A loud roar rose from the crowd.

  “Heeeeeeee struck him out!” Henry shouted in such a manner as to tear away the first two layers of skin from the inside of his throat.

  Head bowed, the batter shuffled away from the plate, the crowd chanting, “Left, right, left, right, left, right,” until he reached his team’s shelter. Then, “Step, step, step,” and finally, “Siddown, ya bum!”

  More rituals. “May I presume they do this every time an opposing batter strikes out?”

  “Sure,” Nicole said, “it’s one of the most fun things about going to a Muskies game. Madison is known throughout the Midwest League for this.”

  Leon sat after leading the cheer, punching left, right, left, right fists in the air. The fans sitting directly adjacent all took turns shaking his hand, all just wanting to touch him as if he was Jesus Christ, or rather Jesus Christ wearing a propeller beanie.

  I turned to Henry and Kern. “What are heaters and benders?”

  �
��Different types of pitches,” Kern said. Henry was too busy drinking his beer to reply.

  Nicole touched me lightly on the shoulder as the next batter stepped into the batter’s box. “A heater is a fastball. A bender is a type of a breaking ball—a slider. A hook is a curve. There’s also knuckleballs, split-finger fastballs, sinkers and palm balls.”

  “Don’t forget spit balls,” Henry said, stifling a burp under his breath.

  “They’re illegal,” Kern said.

  “Pitchers spit on the baseball?” I asked, wondering where the vulgarity of these Americans does indeed end.

  “They’re not supposed to,” Nicole said, “but some guys not long ago made a living at it.”

  “Gaylord Perry,” Kern added.

  “But what possible effect might spitting on a baseball have?”

  “A lot,” Nicole said. “Maybe it’s spit, maybe it’s Vaseline, maybe it’s God knows what. You get something embedded in the seams of the ball and it affects the air resistance. The ball’ll do funny things, making it much harder to hit.”

  “Ah ha,” I said, feeling a sudden burst of realization. “Friction is constantly at work here. Pitchers can achieve certain effects depending on how the ball spins. Correct?”

  “Or depending on how it doesn’t spin,” Kern added. “A knuckleball ain’t supposed to spin. That’s what makes it break one way, then the other.”

  “Surface, you idiot,” Henry snorted. “Don’t you know dick about physics? If a knuckleball doesn’t spin at all, it won’t break. It’ll just be a sitting duck. Ideally, a knuckleball will spin exactly one rotation between the pitcher’s mound and the plate. Because the rotation’s so slow, it’ll break one way, then break back the other way.”

  A loud crack rang through the night, and the crowd groaned loudly. The batter had just gotten a hit and was now standing on first base. The pitcher stood straight this time, shook his head, glanced toward first base, glanced back toward the plate, shook his head again, then turned and threw to first base.

  “He’s trying to hold the runner,” Nicole said, “to keep him from stealing second.” She anticipated my next question. “Any time someone gets on base, they can attempt to reach the next base without the aid of a batted ball. The runner’ll take off when the pitcher throws to the plate. If he makes it to the next base before getting tagged by whoever takes the catcher’s throw, he’s safe. That’s what it means to steal a base.”