by Bill Scheft
“It’s out of my hands.”
“But you ended it. He still thinks you’re his psychiatrist.”
“Your uncle is a very sick man,” Dr. Levitz said. “I don’t know what he’s doing in that hospital.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. That’s confidential.”
“Well,” said College Boy. “What can you tell me?”
“He still owes me for two sessions.”
“I’m sure he’ll take care of that.”
“Tell your uncle I’m very disappointed in him. He should have called me.”
“He was delirious.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I don’t know. He was in severe withdrawal from Valium.”
“Excuse me. What did you just say?”
“He was in severe withdrawal from Valium?”
“Why doesn’t this fucking tape recorder work? Shit! Mr. Sussman, will you testify in my negligence suit against Mount Sinai Hospital?”
“Ah, no.”
“Well, in that case,” said Dr. Levitz, “I’ll have to cancel your five-thirty appointment.”
There is no rejection in life quite like a canceled shrink appointment, even if that appointment never existed. Or especially if it never existed.
The downstairs buzzer jumped his heart. 10:17. Forty-three minutes before his life was forced to resume. Plenty of time. For the first time, ever, College Boy was not polite. He didn’t ask. He opened the door and saw the half-smirk behind her sunglasses. And he pulled Sheila in by that slim God’s gift of a waist and threw his mouth at her. She dropped the cream cheese. He was right. He knew what she had meant last night, with the smile and the index finger in the air. She meant “you next.”
There was no condom in Bagzilla, but College Boy found two in his medicine cabinet, in the empty Sucrets box next to the twenty-dollar bill. Hiding Place D. He used them both on Sheila. Before the second invasion, Sheila playfully said, “Well, well. Young stud.” Well, it had to be playful. He felt neither young nor studlike. What he did feel was the rare relief of being in the company of someone, who, like him, enjoyed what had happened but couldn’t wait to get the hell out when it was over.
There was some time in between, not a lot, for her to sit up on the couch, fold her T-shirt in her willing lap and explain what College Boy had seen last night. The true story. Occasionally, okay, a couple of times a week, she, ahem, entertained. Referrals only, please. She had access to six apartments in the building, the six apartments she cleaned every week, and with the tacit help of the doormen and her overly forthcoming employers, she always knew who was home and who was away. She’d been using Mort’s apartment since he’d gone into Mount Sinai. She felt bad. She’d been working for him two days a week for seventeen years since her mother, Helga, got sick and turned the business over to her. The cleaning business. The other business had only been up and running for, ah, six years. And until last week, she had never used his apartment for anything that didn’t involve a vacuum and disinfectant. She felt bad. Had she said that? Well, she did.
The second time took nice and long, and they both marveled at how sweaty two people could be on a Sunday at 11:04 A.M….
Shit.
College Boy hustled Sheila and himself out like a guy who just said, “Quick, it’s my wife!” He tucked his Prospect Pros jersey—Number 2—into the gray softball pants and rezipped Bagzilla as they rode down on his building’s idea of an elevator.
“Ah, this is embarrassing,” he said. “Do I owe you anything?”
Sheila laughed. Dusty. The laugh of the great-looking woman.
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re family.” She kissed his perplexed cheek. “I’ve given your uncle a blow job every week for the last five years. I never charged him. I’m certainly not going to charge you.”
Well, now.
College Boy’s life resumed, ten minutes late. Another Sunday, this one killed in an altogether different way.
10
“You’re looking awfully well today.”
“So are you, Mr. Spell.”
“Did you see my tie?”
“You weren’t wearing it when you came in.”
“When I came in here?”
“Yes.”
“And just run by me what I’m doing here again.”
“We’re going to do the TURP procedure. On your prostate, Mr. Spell. We’re going to take care of you.”
“I’ve had this done already.”
“When?”
“Nineteen sixty-two, after Laver won Wimbledon.”
“That was your appendix.”
“You’re awfully bright. Not many people know Laver won Wimbledon in 1962.”
“We’re going to put you under now, Mr. Spell.”
“Run what day it is by me again.”
“It’s Monday morning, Mr. Spell.”
“And what time is it?”
“Just after six.”
“Do they know we’re in here?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That way we’ll get our drinks. What did you order?”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“Right. I ordered for you. I hope you like gin.”
“I’m more of a vodka man.”
“Very well then. We’ll switch glasses.”
“Mr. Spell, I want you to count backward from one hundred.”
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to count backward from Prime Ministers.”
“That’s fine.”
“Don’t help me unless I ask you.”
“Don’t worry. Okay, start up on the ketamine, John…”
“I asked you not to help me.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s the new boy, John Major, then Thatcher. Well, that’s over…Sir Anthony Eden…no, Wilson, Heath, Wilson…Harold…Harold…Anthony Eden…Churchill…Clement Attleeath…Heath…Churchill…Churchill…Churchillannnn…”
“Okay, I think he’s under.”
“…MacMillan. Harold MacMillan…”
11
“And now it’s time for a brand new feature on The Dan Drake Show. Something we call ‘Ask The Dirt King.’ That’s what we call it now, but we’re going to need something snappier. I don’t want people thinking they’ve dialed up a seed show on NPR. Now, before we begin, I’ve been instructed to read this disclaimer: The Dirt King is appearing on this program without remuneration. The Dirt King is here to answer your specific questions about dirt and dirt-related issues as they pertain solely to the Heckscher softball fields in Central Park. The Dirt King does not work for the New York City Parks Department, the New York City Parks Department works for The Dirt King. The Dirt King is on no prescription medication that he is aware of. The Dirt King is appearing on this program without remuneration. The Dirt King has no criminal record in New York State. Do not ask The Dirt King about New Jersey, Florida, or New Mexico. Ask only about dirt and dirt-related issues as they pertain solely to the Heckscher softball fields in Central Park. If you have a problem with The Dirt King, it is your problem. If The Dirt King has a problem with you, it is your problem. Please refrain from beginning any question with the phrase ‘Your sister.’ No freaks. Lastly, The Dirt King is appearing on this program without remuneration…. Okay, sir, you have a question for The Dirt King?”
“Yes, if I was playing softball in Central Park and I needed some dirt to fill in the right-handed batter’s box, where would I find you?”
“Can I ay-ask you someding?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know me?”
“Ah, no.”
“Then why are you trying to find me?”
“Well, I need some dirt.”
“Can I ay-ask you anudder thing?”
“Yes.”
“How do you play softball with that rake up your ass?”
“There’s no rake up my ass.”
“That’s cause you didn’t try to find me, capisce?”
&
nbsp; “Okay, next question.”
“Yes, I have a dirt-related question. How do I get dirt stains out of a pair of cotton Gap chinos?”
“Lemme ay-ask you someding? Where did you get this dirt from?”
“Heckscher Field, Diamond #2.”
“Okay, step one, set your washing machine on the warm cycle. Step two, use nonchlorine bleach. Step three, remove that rake from your ass.”
“Next question. Yes, the gentleman that sounds like the first gentleman we heard from.”
“Ah, this is difficult for me to bring up, but last month, I severely twisted my ankle on Diamond #4 when I stepped in a six-inch hole running to first base. The umpires immediately moved our game to another field and ten minutes later, a man who I could still recognize in a photo array showed up and filled in the hole. My question is, can I sue the city?”
“Yeah, go nuts, knock youselves out. Even though this is technically not a dirt-related question, I do know a little bit about such matters as they pertain to those things in these areas. And lemme educate you, you—hey, over here!—that it is extremely difficult to file a lawsuit against the city with a rake up your ass.”
“Okay, next question. Sir?”
“Yes. Last week, the charity I do volunteer work for had its annual fundraising softball game. You were nice enough to drop off some dirt on Diamond #1 after I gave you five hundred dollars cash. Unfortunately, you forgot to leave a rake.”
“Did you check your ass?”
“No…okay, thank you.”
“All right, that’s enough. Join us next time for ‘Ask The Dirt King.’ We’re horribly late for the news….”
The only time Dan Drake was horribly late was when he was enjoying himself. The other way you could tell if Dan Drake was enjoying himself: He talked to you during the news break.
“College Boy,” he said to College Boy, who still looked behind him to see if Dan Drake was talking to someone else. “We blew that one question. When the guy said ‘How do I get dirt stains out of Gap chinos?’ why didn’t you say, ‘Hey, you should be ay-asking yousself’s how do I get that rake out of my ass?’”
“Nah, too forced.”
And here’s another way you could tell if Dan Drake was enjoying himself. If he talked about what happened during the news break when he went back on the air.
It would be 9:25 by the time College Boy unhooked himself from the WLLS studio building. Famous people, people like Dan Drake, all share a common trait. They tend to say, “Hey, where you going?” to people who aren’t famous, aren’t like them, and definitely have somewhere to go. And the people who definitely have somewhere to go wind up staying.
Of all the things Dan Drake liked about College Boy, and “Ask The Dirt King” was maybe 17th on a list of 20, what he liked best was that College Boy had somewhere to go. Which made him the only one at The Dan Drake Show who had somewhere to go. He didn’t have time to let the icy good-byes from Carl and Dr. Blob, workplace sorbet, settle. It was 9:25, the Performing Arts League game started at 10:00, and unless he somehow discovered a way to change clothes and stretch in a cab, for the first time in five years, College Boy would be running into a game cold. Ice cold.
With nothing to do in the cab but project, the intricacy of the softball scenario College Boy tried to visualize made “Ask The Dirt King” seem childish and one-dimensional. His only hope was that his team, the Improv, would be away. That the game would start at least five minutes late. That the three guys ahead of him in the order would have long at bats but not reach base. That the only balls hit his way in the first two innings would be hit no more than six feet to either side of him. That he’d only bat once in the first three innings. And that, oh that this be so, he’d jump on the first pitch and hit a rocket right at someone so he could jog a few strides and give the big smile and finger-wave and the “I’ll get you next AB, you SAG-carded clown” at the pitcher, then clap his hands for the other guys to pick him up with a big enough inning to get in ten minutes of lunges behind the bleachers.
That was the plan, and it almost worked out that way. Almost, like when your horses in the triple finish third, fourth, and fifth. That kind of almost. The Improv was indeed away against Warren Robertson, first place Warren Robertson, but that was the end of things breaking right for College Boy. The game started on time, and the wisdom of the first three Improv batters swinging at the first pitch, while yielding two singles, escaped him briefly, which is how long College Boy had to put on his spikes and adjust whatever appendage, real or aluminum, he could get to. The line drive he carved at the left-center fielder with one out in the first was handled like the editing of Heaven’s Gate. Without discretion. College Boy had to bust it all the way to third against the better judgment of his hamstring. He felt it tug as he slid into third. The tug said “From now on, do not get on base unless you have to.”
And College Boy listened. It was 5–5, one gone, in the top of the seventh when he hit the left field tree on Diamond #4 for a ground-rule double, a merciful jog into second. But then Manfrellotti, the last guy on the Improv who could drive him in, hit an outside pitch high and deep to right. High enough and deep enough for College Boy to try. Try to tag and score from second. He hadn’t done it in a game since last August. Ten months ago, or, if you really want to get technical, another lifetime.
Everything held up. The hamstring screamed but the wheels remained axled, even when he juked the Warren Robertson catcher as the throw sailed up line. He had to start his slide late, and the sidestep veered him toward the pitcher and away from the right-hand batter’s box-ditch-abyss, which saved his ankle and forced his body to stylishly bypass home plate, instead reaching back to whisk it with his hand. 6–5, Improv.
But College Boy lingered, which he never did. His right hand in particular, which lay seductively behind him just past the plate, and just long enough for the catcher to think he still had a play. That must have been what happened, because the next thing College Boy heard was himself saying, “Fuck! Get off! Get off!”
His Improv teammates, led by Manfrellotti, rushed to mob College Boy and triumphantly escort him back to the bench. But it was a two-part project: Rolling the 180-pound Warren Robertson catcher off his right wrist, then picking him up. The first high-five confirmed College Boy’s diagnosis. Sprained. Badly. At least a week off. He might as well have left $850 under the catcher. That fucking load.
You can wise guy your way around bum wheels, but the wrist, the right wrist—the wrist that triggers the buggy-whip torque of your bat and unhinges the slingshot follow-through of your throwing arm—well, there is not enough cocky misdirection in Softball Ringer Nation to act like your goods are undamaged. You can play with pain. You are not supposed to play with an injury. Starting now. Right fucking now.
And by right now, College Boy meant immediately following the bottom of the seventh.
Any doctor will tell you when you play with an injury you run the risk of aggravating it. Or reaggravating it. It’s an interesting term, “aggravating.” It seems like a hopelessly cute way to describe the possibility of making a physical condition worse. Another euphemism from the profession that expunged the word “pain” from its lexicon and replaced it with “discomfort.” Doctors. They can be so, so, what’s the word? Aggravating.
The point is, you don’t play with an injury because you run the risk of really fucking up your shit. College Boy knew that. He knew better. And as he trotted out to left-center field for the last of the seventh, he added this moment to the ever-growing list of situations about which he knew better. Belmont triples. Bourbon and Valium. Ambition. Red-headed allure.
“Hey, College Boy, what are youse, fuckin’ nuts?”
It sounded like his conscience, but louder, dumber.
“Lemme ay-ask you someding. You don’t think I don’t own a fuckin’ FM radio?”
The Dirt King, over on Diamond #6, was tamping what was left of the area in front of the pitching rubber.
“You don�
��t think dat?”
College Boy waved like he’d get back to The Dirt King. Waved with his right hand. Just enough to tell himself, “ow…”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and wave. You keep doing that ‘rake up the ass’ shit, like it’s a fuckin’ joke. You tell that half-a-fag DJ this ain’t no fuckin’ joke, College Boy. This is my life. I am that fuckin’ guy.”
College Boy stared straight ahead. The Warren Robertson cleanup hitter cued a 2–1 pitch foul.
“Hey,” said The Dirt King, “not so fuckin’ funny anymore, huh?”
The catch was a great one. In College Boy’s top ten all-time? No, but up there. And it might have squeezed into elite leatherdom had it been the last out of the game, but it came with none down in the seventh, which still left the tying run on second with two harmless fly balls to Manfrellotti to come. That robbed some of the drama. The rest was robbed by The Dirt King laughing on Diamond #6 and yelling, “Hey, College Boy, gimme a quartah to call the fucking wagon.”
There are three ways to catch a sinking line drive: the sliding basket, the flat-out dive, picking it up on the first hop after it drops in front of you. Option number one, the sliding basket, is not available on a ball hit to your left or, as in this case, your right. Option number three is never available when you’re getting fifty bucks a game. That leaves what it leaves.
The one thing with which an injury cannot compete is instinct. College Boy launched himself at the end of a furious forty-foot run. Fully extended, the Rawlings Pro 1000 infielder’s glove, too small for everyone else, backhanded and agape. The flat-out dive. Option number two, like the number forever on College Boy’s back. A flying hypotenuse between ball and earth. His timing, like his math, perfect. Instinct. Just as it was instinct to try and cushion his post-catch landing with his hand. His right hand.
Broken. Not just aggravated or reaggravated. Livid.
Still on the ground and pre-writhe, College Boy backhanded the ball with his gloved hand, like a jai-alai player at the end of the one match point that isn’t fixed, to Rackham, the shortstop. And they almost caught the runner scrambling back to second. Well, that’s what it sounded like. When your eyes are blind with pain and shut down like the rest of you, indefinitely, all you’re left with is what you hear. A safe call from Butch the ump. An “aw, fuck!” from Rackham. Butch calling time. A couple of guys who sound like they’re standing over you asking if you’re all right. Someone who sounds like you saying yes. A laugh-dipped pierce from The Dirt King about calling an ambulance. The fucking wagon.