by Thomas Melo
Chapter 4
Flight 696, from McCarran International Airport-Las Vegas to Boston Logan Airport, landed at 2:42pm on a beautiful summer day; the type of summer day that would inspire the most virtuosic of artists. Beams of luminous brilliance shined through the windows of Logan Airport, illuminating a bright passageway for Tyler and Lilith to follow on their way to the baggage claim carousel. Unfortunately, the signs directing travelers to different points throughout the airport were not as illuminating and left plenty to be desired after they were changed during the most recent renovation. Why not ask a local business man, or someone who looks like they may be familiar with the airport to direct them?
“Excuse me, sir? Do you know where th–”
“Leave me the fack alone, jirk-aff,” the sweaty and staggering Bostonian drunk barked at Tyler.
Tyler stood there perplexed by the man’s reaction to a simple request, well, half of a request really; he didn’t have time to get his entire question out. He had no choice but to burst out laughing, and loud enough for the seemingly mentally disturbed New Englander to look back over his shoulder annoyed to see what the fack was so fackin’ funny or what all the fackin’ hubbub was aboat. Tyler had to laugh; he needed to save his malevolence for the baseball game in a few days; and not just the typical quips and jeers towards an opposing team either…malevolence; whether he was justified or not. Be patient, we’re getting there.
The laughter also came because of the juxtaposition of the picture perfect day yielded the sanctified exquisiteness of the sunlit terminal, and the reaction of the first clammy psychopath they decided to engage in Boston. It was too comical to overlook.
“Must be a Red Sox fan,” Lilith suggested.
This made Tyler roar louder with merriment; loud enough so that reunited couples, hurried business men, vacationers, and airport employees took a quick peek to see what the commotion was about. A very quick peek mind you, lest they increase their chances of having a confrontation with the cackling loon (for all they knew), tremendously.
Tyler finally got a hold of himself. “You know, come to think of it, I think that’s the first joke I’ve ever heard you tell,” as his ear to ear smile waned a little. It did not go as far as breaching a frown, no, this was more akin to an appearance of confounded pondering. Clearly, he was quickly flipping through his hard-drive of Tyler/Lilith memories, eleven years’ worth, trying to come up with the last thing she said in jest. He came up empty. He could not figure out why, and suddenly a murky haze settled over his mind’s eye and consternation drowned his thoughts.
Lilith’s knowing brow lifted ever so slightly. She quickly leaned into him and gave him a semi-passionate kiss (not awkward for public consumption) on his lips and Tyler’s mind cleared. Gone was the anxiety threatening to beat his heart out of his chest, as well as the thoughts of how abnormal it was for a person who you spent most of your time with, never to have shared a joke with you, or at least if they had, it was so far in the past that you could not recall a single time. And that implies it has been years, if at all.
“Let’s go get our bags, Ty,”
“Yeah,” he rubbed his temple and his right eye, “alright, let’s go.”
* * *
The blissful couple spent the next couple of days exploring Boston. The Yankees/Red Sox game, which was the main attraction of the trip, was not until their third day in Boston.
In the meantime, they occupied the next 48 hours by beginning at Tremont Street and exploring the Freedom Trail. They had heard so much about the many attractions on the Trail and decided that it would be worth their time.
Their first stop was Boston Common, where Tyler recalled his history classes with Jim Colabza at the helm; they had discussed how Boston Common was the site where great celebrations commemorating the repealing of the Stamp Act and the end of the Revolutionary War were held. Tyler began to wonder what his old teacher was up to these days. Coincidentally, at that exact moment, Jim Colabza was also thinking about his former student.
Lilith’s interests in Boston Common were aimed in slightly different directions than her husband’s. She was fascinated with the darker history of the Common. The Common, also a site for Puritanical castigations and torture, yielded a whipping post and stock. Although “The Great Elm,” a tree from which murderers, pirates, witches and other outlaws swung from by their necks was no longer standing, there was a placard of demarcation which made the intangible tangible once again.
After they left Boston Common, Tyler suggested they check out Park Street Church in their travels, having seen it in so many films and television shows during his upbringing, but was promptly shot down by Lilith, who stated plainly that “churches were fucking boring,” said with just a subtle hint of that signature smirk that, by now, you must surely know her for.
They compromised and decided to stop at the Old Corner Bookstore instead. When they arrived and Tyler inquired of the store owner as to where he could find some Stephen King books, Tyler and Lilith were enlightened as to how, not two years earlier, there was a Mexican restaurant where they were now standing. The power of suggestion almost fooled them into thinking that they could still smell the Ghost of Mexican Food’s Past to the point where Tyler’s stomach began to howl at him.
What began as property owned by Anne Hutchinson three centuries ago had been converted into a Mexican restaurant.
Nothing more needs to be said about that; surely that statement invokes the proper sentiment in you. While a modern bookstore is not exactly complete and appropriate redemption for this historical landmark, it is more apropos to what the site used to be rather than the bastardization of a historic landmark that a Mexican restaurant would represent. Having said that, the chimichangas were reported to be very good…just not good enough to keep the doors open.
Tyler was intrigued by the story, while Lilith looked as if she was watching paint dry. After the proprietor spun his tale, he directed them to his Stephen King section. Yes, he had his own section; and this was where Tyler quickly picked up a first edition of the newest and ninth installment of King’s Dark Tower series. Toilet time just increased for Sai Swanson three-fold.
During their travels, they hit a couple of restaurants, as well as the Old South Meeting House, the Old State House, and the site of the Boston Massacre. On the following day they finished up their version of the Freedom Trail tour by visiting Paul Revere’s home, the Bunker Hill monument, the USS Constitution, and Copp’s Hill Burying Ground, which brought Lilith back to life a bit. It was clear that she was in Boston solely for the Yankees/Red Sox game. This was not to say that the game was not what Tyler was looking forward to most of all as well, but for Lilith, it seemed as if it was the apotheosis of something grandiose; the culmination of a life spent working towards something.
Chapter 5
It was game day and first pitch commenced at 1:05 EST.
Tyler and Lilith made their way down Lansdowne Street towards Yawkey Way to enter what Tyler considered the lion’s den. Tyler grew up a Yankee fan his entire life, so, naturally, going to a game at Fenway park was equivalent to being behind enemy lines. A soldier must prepare for battle and not go to war on an empty stomach however, and nothing is as enticing as the fragrant aroma of soft hot pretzels baking over a bed of white hot coals inside of a shopping cart. New Yorkers, transplanted or otherwise will understand that. I am neither, but I digress…
As Tyler and Lilith made their way through the primordial tunnels of the old ballpark, Ty looked over to his wife and saw a smile plastered on her face, nearly ear to ear, and it was not due to the pretzel. She did not want one. “Nevermind the reason,” Tyler thought to himself. He was just happy to see that she was in a good mood. Lilith could be quite moody, however charming, but he was able to barrel past all of the mood swings and/or smile-free days. It has been said before, but there was just something about Lilith.
That was great though: a smile on her face in anticipation of watching the Red Sucks, as he wou
ld refer to them with his buddies, get their clocks cleaned by the Bronx Bombers. They found their seats on the left field line in the outfield, three rows from the front. A fantastic vantage point. They soaked in their surroundings for about ten minutes, observing a fair share of Yankee fans polluting the Boston faithful around them, and then, a voice boomed over the public address system and requested everyone rise for the Star Spangled Banner. After the popular pop singer–the name of whom I have neglected to recall–left the field to moderately polite applause, the Red Sox took the field and the game began, and the countdown to Tyler Swanson’s calamitous, no, epochal event, was almost over.
* * *
It was the top of the sixth inning when Brett Gardner, the Yankee captain, came to the plate and belted a frozen rope line drive which wrapped itself around Pesky Pole in short right field (very short right field), bounced off of the hands of an uncoordinated Red Sox fan and disappeared into the crowd for a two-run homerun putting the Yankees on top, six to one.
“Fack!” an angry Bostonian exploded two rows behind them. “Check that cheatin’ fack fuh steroids! The guy’s faw foot three and he’s knawckin’ homeruns left and right fuh the last faw yeeiz! The fack!?”
“Aww, save it, ya blow-hard! Pesky poll is like 100 feet from home plate! And you guys have the balls to bitch about the short porch in Yankee Stadium? Give me a break, pal! Maybe if you guys had a decent pitcher you wouldn’t have to worry about lefties pulling balls over the fence!”
“Ahh, yaw muthiz ass!”
Before the situation became exacerbated any further, as it tends to happen in the crowds of a sold-out Yankees/Red Sox game–in Boston, orthe Bronx, I will be fair–a couple of good Samaritan fans defused the ugly situation. One of them inadvertently came close to reigniting the fire when one of the good Samaritan’s wives added, “Yeah! Jeez, keep it down. There are kids here!” to which the Boston fan remarked that “no one gave a shit about her kids but her and her husband.”
That should have been the Insult Heard Around the World, the one that started World War III in the stands, but instead the wife’s husband took the higher ground and gave a more mature response that put an end to the tiff right then and there.
“Real classy, pal. You’re class personified,” the husband called from five seats away.
Then all was quiet in the section, well, save for the typical ambience of a sold-out baseball stadium. Lilith took the lull in the action as an opportunity to look behind her and mark the idiotic blow-hard who was complaining about the homerun.
“I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance for eleven years,” she said under her breath as she turned her torso back forward in her seat.
“What, hun?” Tyler asked.
“Nothing, I was just saying how I have to go to the bathroom, but I’m going to wait until the inning starts so that the line won’t be a mile long.”
“Ok. By the way, I have to tell you that this surprise trip was so great. Thank you so much; I’m having a great time.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered. Tyler leaned in for a kiss and she kissed him back. As the inning started, the Yankees took the field and the Yankee fans in their section began a “BRE-ET GARD-NER!” chant, the blow-hard seated behind them got up and walked towards the concourse, stumbling a bit up the first two stairs of the steep cement staircase.
Tyler watched the game, and Lilith “watched” the game. She was, in actuality, frostily calculating and determining the optimum moment to retreat to the concourse behind the boisterous stew-bum for a life-changing rendezvous; life-changing for Lilith, and her husband. This was all part of the diabolically deific plan, you see.
After the final out of the inning was made, Lilith got up and made her way up into the concourse while Tyler remained enamored with the ballgame. The crowd roared–save for the Yankee fans present, of course–as Dustin Pedroia made a diving stop at second base to rob the Yankees of two more runs and saving his pitcher’s earned run average. Lilith did not break stride.
* * *
Kenny Baker, a die-hard Red Sox fan, was jarred from sleep at 7:02am, on the same morning of the Yankees/Red Sox game at Fenway, after tying one on and summarily getting tossed out of the Wicked Compatriot, a notorious dive bar in South-Boston–or “Southie” as it is referred by its residents–for picking fights with the patrons. Needless to say, Ken Baker, with his fiery red hair and the initial stages of a beer gut, was ornery when he was plucked from his semi-restful drunken slumber by the incessant buzzing of his cell phone, which was resting on a pile of change just to make the sound extra loud and irritating.
“The fack! What!?” Ken barked into the receiver of his phone.
It was his friend Bobby “Sully” Sullivan who called to inform his friend that he would be turning himself into the Boston police on that day for a warrant that was issued for violating his probation. Surely not the worst crime in the world, and not nearly as bad as the assault and battery charge which set him on the path where probation would be a part of his life in the first place, but a crime nonetheless.
“Relax theah, hawt-shawt. I’m don’t need bail or nuthin’, I wanted to see if you wanted my fackin’ Sawx ticket fuh today.”
“Ahh, gawt jammed up again, pal? You gawta try somethin’ else; the criminal life ain’t agreein’ with you, ya cawk-knawka!”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. You want ‘em or nawt?”
“Yaw muthiz ass! Yeah, I want em’!”
“So come get em’ ya fackin’ junk-head! I’ll leave them in my mailbawx. Don’t wurry, the mailman won’t snatch em’; I had my mail stopped in preparation for my next stint in county.”
After the articulately graceful Bobby Sullivan and Kenny Baker terminated their phone call, Kenny looked at his Facebook page on his phone and saw that he had no new notifications, no friend requests, and no private messages. He spotted a stray Skittle on the floor, picked it up, and ate it graciously and then retreated back to sleep for another four hours after he passed some gas, and tossed his phone onto his nightstand, knawckin’ some of the change to the floor.
He was going to need his rest. The debatably poor soul had no idea what a pivotal role he would play later that afternoon.
* * *
It is rumored that a cure for a hangover is feeding it with fatty food, and of course, more alcohol, which is exactly where Lilith found Kenny Baker at Fenway Park: the concession stand line–in actuality, his third trip. Lilith sidled in right behind him in line, and if he were still alive to tell you, Kenny would report that there was an eerie magnetic allurement coming from behind him, which made him turn around and look upon the stunningly beautiful Lilith. Lilith needed not do any additional enticing; Kenny liked what he saw.
“Hey hawt stuff. Buy you a beah?” Kenny offered.
“I’m good, thank you,” Lilith answered. Although she was not nasty about it, there was an undertone of agitation in her voice.
“Yaw sittin’ a couple a’ rows in front of me, aren’t ya? Who’s that hump yaw with?”
“That “hump” is my husband. See the ring, asshole?” Lilith spat, as she held up her hand so that Kenny could see the ring and then quickly dropped every finger on her hand except for her middle one.
“A ring don’t mean a thing!” Kenny pointed out.
“How shrewd that would have been twenty years ago. Excuse me.” Lilith walked away back towards the tunnel leading to the stand.
“Yawr an ugly cunt anyway!” Kenny lashed out, clearly flailing because Lilith was nothing short of breathtaking.
Lilith’s signature smirk crept onto her face, and Kenny Baker immediately went cold. Goose pimples rose on his arms and the coarse, unwashed red hair that shrouded those ugly goose pimples stood at attention. “Besides changing your disgusting hair color, you should try showering on a regular basis, and stop eating Skittles off of your bedroom floor you slovenly pig. By the way, the Red Sawx suck.”
The lines of Red Sox fans around
them waiting for their beers and Fenway Franks erupted into applause despite Lilith wearing enemy colors, further humiliating the unfortunate Kenny Baker.
Lilith turned and walked up the tunnel and back to her seats. Her back was turned to Kenny, so he could not see the wicked smile she was proudly wearing. A young adult male, seeing the smile, plastered himself to the tunnel wall as she passed, giving her as wide a birth as he possibly could.
When Lilith returned to her seat and to her husband, Tyler could see that there was something wrong.
“What’s the matter, babe?”
“Some low-life piece of shit was harassing me on my way back from the ladies room,” Lilith informed her husband.
“What? Where!?” Tyler started to get up, but was pulled back down with incredible strength that he barely noticed in his climb towards rage.
“Relax, I took care of it. I humiliated the pig.”
“What did he say? Tell me what he said,” Tyler commanded.
Lowering her voice, trying to get Tyler to do the same, she put her imagination to work. “He told me that he wanted to take me into a bathroom stall and ‘break one off in me.’ Classy…how could I resist, right? Then, he said that he didn’t care that I was married. He said, get this: A ring don’t mean a thing.”
At least that part was true. The story itself resembled what actually took place, but was obviously embellished in order to stir up that dark rage that resided deep in Tyler. It was working. His face was turning from red to purple, but Lilith was still in good spirits as she recalled the tale to her husband. “I told him that he should change his awful hair color and that he was a disgusting pig and that the Red Sox sucked. Even though I was surrounded by Red Sox fans, they laughed at what I said. He learned his lesson I think. Let’s watch the game, Ty.”