National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

CHAPTER 7 NEW ENGLAND TO CHICAGO

  James decides he needs to get the blood stirring with some New England air and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee before they seriously begin to discuss what’s new on the agenda.

  It’s about 37 degrees with a moderate breeze and overcast skies in New London today.

  “Good day for some pickup football,” James observes as the two are walking off the property. “As long as it doesn’t rain. I mean there’s no games worth sitting on the couch all day for, either.”

  Gerry agrees. Then it soon hits him: baseball’s opening day is tomorrow. It would be sacrilegious for two baseball romantics like themselves to not try and check out the Cubs game. After all, Gerry did not need to be in Joliet, about an hour drive from where the Cubs play, until 4:00 pm.

  So instead of hanging around the Dunkin’ Donuts to finish their breakfast, James and Gerry opt to grab their meal for takeout in order to get back to the house and shop online for what are probably fast-moving tickets.

  They agreed on a $50 dollar budget apiece for tickets, but nothing is available on the Cubs website. On to option #2: TicketDaddy.com. Nothing is under $100. These guys just don’t have the kind of disposable income that in any way could shake their budget status down to an uncomfortable level. They could go on without restaurant food, the sight of a respectable public toilet, shelter even; but man shouldn’t spend 16 hours on the American interstate without enjoying sport highlights and booze of choice in a tavern at end of the day.

  Gerry goes on to suggest that they could at least check out the opening day atmosphere around the stadium before game time. “Then we could interlude at Harry Caray’s or wherever we can get a bar stool for the game before taking off to Joliet.”

  James was beginning to build a guilty conscience. He knew all this was an exercise in futility considering he was intimately friendly with a Chicago-based sportswriter.

  “Enough sandbagging on my part,” James says. “I’m calling the Bat Line.”

  “Who are you calling?” Gerry says with a perplexing look.

  “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  James begins to mumble, as he’s trying to function his phone and talk at the same time, “Shh, this demands all of the concentration abilities that coffee can placebo a package of outstanding rhetoric for right now.”

  He then laughs a little shamefully at the prattle. The two are dealing with unpleasant psychological effects from consuming all that beer last night; making them just stupefied enough not to know if what James just said actually made any sense.

  James will text Tina first. He figures a college beat reporter on a Sunday in early spring must be working somewhere today. Here’s what he wrote:

  Happy Sunday to you! I know its short notice, but I wanted to let you know that my friend Gerry and I are driving back home to Washington. He may be playing baseball in Joliet this spring and has a meeting with the skipper late tomorrow afternoon. We would be rolling into town tomorrow morning. We are also looking for affordable Cubs tickets. I have two questions for you: 1.) If you don’t have plans, would you like to meet us at Wrigley? And 2.) Can you get us tickets?...LOL? Let me know if or when you are available to talk on the phone about this. Thanks.

  All weekend Tina had been covering an NCAA track meet in West Lafayette, IN, which featured local universities of interest in host Purdue, Illinois, Notre Dame and the Chicago based DePaul.

  Reporters forget what its like to be comfortable. The unremitting set of tasks abiding the thankless art takes all the qualitative brainpower an individual can apply for every assignment-too often at a breakneck pace.

  When most sports reporters have completed covering any event, whether it be the Super Bowl, an NCAA track meet, or eight-man high school football, and the final copy of their work has been submitted, they typically sleep like a baby that first care-free evening.

  Colleagues covering all other areas of life for a daily newspaper comparatively look down on reporters of the world of sport, gauging the 365-day coverage itself as elementary.

  But it’s the loyal reader that keeps newspapers in business, and for a reporter in Tina’s position, there is a unique civic responsibility and added pressure to perform than the average reporter or civilian comes to realize. For instance, if a DePaul sophomore from Kankakee, Illinois happens to have set the school mark for pole vaulting by a 19-year-old, its Tina’s job to incorporate that nugget of information into her article, even if the accomplishment itself did not earn the youngster 1st, 2nd, or 3rd place in the meet itself. Because for the pole-vaulter and his family, having his name mentioned in a Chicago newspaper for making his or her way into the university record book is something his grandmother will proudly have magnetized to her ice-box for all to see until the day she dies.

  If there’s one part of the printed newspaper that still appeals to anyone who can read, it’s the 15-minutes of fame that anyone, even a 19-year-old DePaul sophomore from Kankakee, will forever appreciate just by seeing his name favorably mentioned in an article.

  Unfortunately for Tina, the prospect of making some kids’ day is about the only thing motivating her to go to work anymore. Every newspaper in the country continues to lose money each quarter, and as a result of consecutive years of corporate cost cutting, the average reporter’s workload gets stretched thin.

  With the Grim Reaper of staff downsizing all but occupying his own office at the Chicago Tribune, sadly Tina and her contemporaries can no longer live worry free as long as they work in this business.

  Has society ever witnessed a public occupation experience a fall from grace quite like the position of newspaper reporter? The prestige factor has been reduced to cheap talk in expensive settings, as private college professors reminisce throughout semesters about the good ‘ol newspaper days when people had time to read, let alone train their dog to go fetch the roll itself every morning.

  Even most of the accustomed standards and norms once provided for reporters have become a thing of the past. For instance, West Lafayette is 120 miles from Chicago. Ten years ago, Tina would have stayed in a hotel provided by her employer to cover the track meet for the weekend. And today? Anything less than 150 miles is considered close enough to home to commute to and from the event each day included in the assignment.

  As one can imagine, all this partnered with the emotional scars still lingering from a divorce causes Tina to reflect a little. She knows she married the wrong guy, and now it seems, she married the wrong career as well. One already betrayed and broke her heart, while the other threatens to do it every day. All she ever wanted growing up was to be a devoted mother and family caretaker.

  Because all Tina currently has to identify herself with is the title of college sports reporter, she is on the verge of suffering her first mid-life crisis. Shrinks call this the quarter-life crunch. If you’re lucky, you’ll get it out of the way before you’re 25 though. The closer you experience the crisis to 30, it becomes that much harder to avoid being dependent on the crutches of medication and psychotherapy. When you start second-guessing every choice you have ever made, you begin to lose faith and sense of the big, beautiful picture you once painted for your future, the harder it becomes to perform like a champion each day.

  What Tina needs right now is a visit from James, who would gladly change his name to Mel Gibson if it secured him an immediate sports reporting job like Tina’s. His token of ignorance and invincibility, complemented with a zest for life’s possibilities is something that she contemplates rediscovering for herself, given her young age and social situation. Instead, the idea of daydreaming any new destinies is something she’s not comfortable doing alone at this point.

  In contrast, James stopped taking the idea of his destiny so seriously. He met Dwayne Beckus last night, and slept on his life-changing proposal. Today, he feels just as chipper about the idea of becoming a New England carpenter. And just like so, he managed to successfully avoid facing his own quarter-life crunch.

  As T
ina receives the text she is still lying in bed with Duke, her Boston terrier, watching television and skimming through the Sunday sports page.

  She can’t believe the sight of the text. This is an unexpected mood energizer. She has had Mondays off before, but the idea of meeting James for the first time and spending the afternoon with him at Wrigley Field of all places hardly represents the average day off.

  This vitalizes her to the point of pausing her television program, The View, before heading to the bathroom in order to freshen up a little before texting James back.

  Most of the guys at the Chicago Tribune were smitten with Tina, and she knew it. So when she makes five separate phone calls-all to males-looking for opening day tickets to the Cubs game, she was aware of the fact that the average man partakes in good deeds not for the dignified premise of honoring thy neighbor as much as it is a reflex for the call of the wild.

  Carrying out this sort of request is acting out of character for Tina. But she manages to reasonably justify it.

  I’ll ask the married guys first, she thought. So I would never have to return the favor with a date, just a batch of cookies and a bottle of good red wine to take home.

  After just three hours of dialing in her first ticket request, with less than 24 hours until the gates open at Wrigley for baseball’s opening day, Tina would receive verbal confirmation for three general admission bleacher tickets to be left in her mailbox at The Tribune by 5 PM, courtesy of her boss, the deputy sports editor himself.

  “I’d better get to work on those cookies,” she says to Duke.

  While James and Gerry awaited the big news from Tina, they made their way over to Mystic and walked throughout the seaport a while before grabbing an authentic seafood meal fit for a king. Over clam chowder bread bowls, calamari, fish and chips, and a few rounds of draft beer, James detailed the history and current parameters of his relationship with Tina.

  It wouldn’t be until they get to the outskirts of Cleveland at 1 AM, that James and Gerry discover the restless side effects for the coveted “second wind” had arrived. At least one round of such a biorhythmic jolt is essential when undertaking in an all-night drive through a horizontal ¼ of the country. An awe-inspiring live and firsthand evening view of a major metropolitan skyline like Cleveland usually provides relief from the stale effects of invariability that come with hours of passing big rigs and seeing nothing else but headlights, mile markers, deer crossing signs and farmland, respectively.

  They decide to try and make this reset of sorts official by exiting to gas up and round up a bundle of cheap pleasures like Black & Milds, energy drinks, peanuts and periodicals. Gerry would buy a few burritos at the hot-rack, like he always does. Before heading back to the truck they go for a stroll around a sequestered area of the great, lit parking lot to take in what is left of a joint along with a diversionary football-tossing session.

  Since Gerry had been sleeping for three consecutive hours before they got to Cleveland, they decide its best for him to take the wheel once they are ready to leave.

  After a few miles back into the interstate, James flips on the dome light and begins to scan through The USA Today he bought. The first headline that spurs him to read out loud is, “Obama Explains Why He Is A Christian.”

  “Why did I buy this?” James shrugs in disgust.

  Gerry reaches over to thumb through on the paper, his eyes carefully shifting in both directions, “Sports page, baseball preview, remember?”

  “I know,” James says with a sigh. “It’s just sad to think that the media really is manipulating our country.

  “Think about it, what is news? It’s whatever the media says is news.”

  “Whatever sells, right?.”

  “I know, I know.” James shakes his head. “But, people go on with their day actually contemplating whether or not Obama is the Anti-Christ. What about the mad scientist who invented plastic? Boy talk about Pandora’s Box that invention is going to turn out to be.”

  “Maybe you should plan to stay out of this business,” Gerry smirked.

  James cracks the window a little, as piercing cold air blows in. He begins to light up and draw smoke from a plastic tipped mini cigar. He lets out a giant puff before resting back on his seat, his chin cocked skyward just a little.

  “It’s going to be nice,” James says softly. “To only have to worry about what I’m going to build or fix for somebody. Tucked away in breathtaking New England.”

  This is when Gerry decides its best to tell his friend carefully, by emphasizing that he will only tell him this once, that he disagrees with the decision to give up on his God-given ability to write for a living.

  James shows no hostility towards Gerry’s difference of opinion, in fact he’s flattered and surprised to learn that Gerry thinks that highly of his talents.

  “But God also wants me to be a productive member of society,” James will eventually argue. “Sure he gave me this gift, but how long am I supposed to apply it and get nothing in return!

  “Stability and security is something I am yearning for, man. I don’t want to be 30 and not have an address.”

  That brings Gerry to his next topic of conversation: Tina.

  “I think if this gal,” Gerry begins with a serious tone, even turning the volume knob down on the radio. “You did say she is single, right?”

  “Oh boy.” James turns his head in dismay and sighs. “Yeah, I’m almost certain.”

  “If this gal is single, and you two share the same kind of connection tomorrow in person that you have for years on paper, I would think of you as socially retarded if you didn’t pull out all the stops to advance the relationship.”

  James shakes his head. The thought of the possibility of love being on the table is just too much to juggle right now. “Call me socially retarded then, because I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “Again, I’m only going to stress all this to you once,” Gerry responds instantly. “Big Game listen to me: this is life. Join the rest of us. This is how we do things.

  Gerry then finishes sternly, “Great gals don’t grow on trees, you Know that.”

  “Tell you what,” James cracks open his energy drink, after having seen Gerry enjoy a swig and belch sequence of his own.

  “What?”

  “If the chemistry is there between her and I tomorrow, in a romantic setting like the Wrigley Field bleachers, I will ask her out.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “That’s great,” Gerry says. “I hope it happens, but don’t forget I have that meeting.”

  They agree that it would be best if, should James and Tina hit it off, Gerry drive himself to Joliet using James’ GPS system.

  “How will I know if you want or need to come with me?”

  “Easy,” James smiles. “I’ll have the keys.”

  Gerry nods. There’s a tension free moment of silence. This is when James begins to realize how fortunate he is to have a wingman for what could turn out to be a landmark moment of his young life.

  Then Gerry decides this is a good time to foment, in harmless road trip spirit, and get James back for the lesbian surprise.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Gerry said plainly. “I have an old ballplayer trick of the dating trade to share with you.”

  “Okay.” James replies with a ting of earnestness in his voice.

  “Exercise caution with her fingernails.”

  “What?” James says tepidly, knowing Tina types and holds a pen for a living.

  “Oh yeah, it’s a common checkpoint in clubhouse conversation,” Gerry says with conviction. “Right behind the size and shape of her dumper. I know this will sound like an urban legend, but the nail trends never lie.”

  Gerry goes on to explain that a girl with a sexed-up French manicure almost always comes with baggage, “like 90 percent of the time.” A girl with black nails is simply conforming to the latest social trends, and not really sure about herself, “but they often have controlling t
endencies.” A girl who doesn’t take care of her nails at all is usually, “the kind who has a tendency to leave both dirty dishes in the sink and the same panties on her rear for an entire week.”

  He goes on to conclude that the girl with red painted nails, more often than not, has a clue, “and often sweet as pie, like Laura Bush, you know what I mean?

  James feels thankful that he has Gerry as a source for this kind of knowledge, while Gerry can’t believe he just got away with such ad-libbed nonsense.

  Discussing current events and any anthropological theories associated with them would keep the two vibrant and lucid for the next hour and a half before James finally gets dreary eyed from all the reading. He confesses to Gerry that he needs a few hours of sleep. Gerry insists that he feels great, encouraging James to get comfortable and get some shut-eye.

  Just a few hours later, at 4 AM, Gerry exits to an interstate gas, food & rest center for the sake of simply stopping the truck for everyone’s safety. James is sleeping so well that he doesn’t even awaken from the progressive thrust that comes with the vehicle slowing to an eventual stand still.

  Gerry calls James’ name out loud a few times before finally shaking his shoulder.

  James’ eyes peel a little nervously. The first thing he looks for is any sign of being parked in the big city. Negative.

  “I can’t stay awake,” Gerry pleads.

  Any disoriented anxiety James might have been feeling is now gone.

  Okay, we didn’t get pulled over, James thought…the truck is running fine. We’ll be okay. He turns his back to Gerry and straightens his legs out before moaning into his pillow.

  “Where are we?”

  “Indiana,” Gerry responds.

  They get out of the car and stretch before heading inside to get out of the cold. They were just a few hours away from Chicago, but didn’t need to be there for at least five hours. The idea of parking a state away, however, to get a nap was out of the question. Nothing would have caused them more frustration than to get caught in major metropolitan traffic. They could sleep once they got to Wrigleyville.

  James now knows he is going to have to switch back to the role of driver if they are to make it on time. This is going to be a grossly challenging stretch behind the wheel. He will have to withstand over 100 more miles of rote interstate driving while Gerry is sure to be hunkered nicely in his seat with sugarplums dancing in his head. He would also be heading into unfamiliar territory during the intense, early jockeying for position stages of Greater Chicago’s bear of a morning commute.

  Caffeine, nicotine, grass even, would no longer do the trick. It was time for motor skill rehabilitation. Well this just the facility for that idea since it happens to have an arcade room with a few old favorites: a Hoop Fever basketball shooting stand as well as a Pac Man video game system. This stirs up enough adrenaline to ignite James for a safe enough drive to the north side of Chicago.