—I wouldn’t worry too much. Figure the guys who beat you up came into the bar looking for Mr. Miner and you must have pissed them off somehow. And if they are looking for him, not you, they probably have no idea that you’re his neighbor. So take it easy and we’ll get this all sorted out.
Color me reassured.
—Thanks, that helps.
—And you’re certain you don’t have a number where Mr. Miner can be reached?
—No.
—When he left the cat, he gave you no phone number and no address?
—No.
—OK.
—It’s just, he was in a hurry and I was a bit loaded that night, so . . .
—OK.
—But he always talked about his dad being upstate somewhere. Rochester, I think.
—OK.
—And I’m pretty sure about the place he works, where it is and all.
—OK.
The way Detective Roman says “OK” this last time makes it clear that I’m just babbling now, so I put a sock in it and he makes a last note in his book.
—Let’s get to it.
He stands up, pulls out a pair of thin rubber gloves, and goes across the hall to Russ’s door, which he can’t open because, of course, the bad guys locked it behind them. But that’s OK because whoever looked out the window while I was flopping around left that wide open. One of the uniforms goes through the window and opens the door.
I stand in the hall and watch Roman do his thing and I am thoroughly impressed. He goes through the place like a machine, telling the uniforms what to touch and what not to touch. He pokes and pries into every corner and dusts for prints and gets the job done in a way that makes you happy to be a taxpayer. Then he’s finished. He closes the door to Russ’s apartment and slaps a police seal across the jamb. He gives me his card and tells me to call right away if anything else happens and to have Mr. Miner call him immediately if and when he returns. Then he and the uniforms leave and I sit down on my couch and wish I had a cocktail and Bud jumps up in my lap and I remember the fucking key in his box.
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed and think about Russ and the tracksuits and their pals. I think about Detective Roman telling me not to worry. I think about not having a job and I think about the money I owe. I think about the key. I think about the key a lot.
When I remembered the key, I froze. The cops had just left and part of me was screaming to go after them with the key, but I froze instead. Who knows what the fucking thing is and why Russ put it there? But he entrusted it to me. Granted, he didn’t tell me about it, or the fact that some guys might be looking for it and I might be getting beaten up. So fuck him. And so I grabbed the key and ran after the cops, but they were gone by then. In the end, my head was in too many knots to do much good thinking, so I put the key back in Bud’s box and, since I was so beat, I tried to hit the hay.
But with all the shit I’ve been through today, I can’t get to sleep. Or keep from thinking about a drink. I haven’t gone to bed without at least a nightcap in quite a while and I’m not sure how to go to sleep without it. I try to read a bit. I try to watch TV. I end up back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I can’t take it. I get up and dig in a desk drawer and take out an old brass pipe. Carefully, I break it down into its several component parts and scrape the weed resin from each one. I collect the resin on a fold of paper, reassemble the pipe, form the resin into a gummy ball, drop it onto the screen, and light up. A resin high is not an up high. There just isn’t much helpless giggling involved. Likewise it is not a lightweight high. It is not for amateurs. Fortunately, I’m not looking for laughs and I have years in this business: I am an experienced professional.
I take the smoke in extra deep and hold each lungful for as long as I possibly can. If this doesn’t work I’m screwed for sleep and I don’t feel like taking any chances. I put Shotgun Willie on the CD player, turn off the lights and hop into bed to finish smoking. Bud hops up on the bed and I let him stay. His food thingy is empty. I’ll need to fill it in the morning. Willie has the greatest voice for getting high to. I can’t believe the shit that happened today. I’m starting to drift; the resin is doing its job. I suck down the last hit, put the pipe on my nightstand and burrow in under the covers. I always sleep on my side in a little curl, Bud settles into the space between my knees and my stomach and we both fall asleep.
The nightmare is always the same. I play center field for the San Francisco Giants. It’s my rookie season and we’re playing in game seven of the World Series against the Oakland Athletics. I have excelled all season long, batting over .300, hitting 34 homers, knocking in 92 RBI and competing for a Gold Glove. I am a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year. We’re playing in Oakland, it’s the bottom of the ninth and I just sacrificed in the go-ahead run in the top of the inning. Now the A’s have runners at second and third with two out. Our one-run lead is hanging by a thread.
I roam center field. My teammates range around me. I feel safe. I have that great big-game feel in my stomach: half tight, half loose. In the dream, I know everything about all the guys in the game, not just the ones on my team, but the A’s as well. I know everything about the whole league. I have a season’s worth of memories, all 162 regular season games plus the postseason.
The batter steps up. His name is Trenton Lane
. I played against him in the minors. He’s a beast, a right-handed third baseman that loves to hit heat. On the mound we’ve got our left-handed closer, Eduardo Cortez. Eddie throws nothing but fire and hasn’t given up a run in the playoffs. The crowd loves it. The guys on the field love it. I love it. This is baseball.
Trenton has arms like an ape. Anything outside he’s gonna pound, so Eddie will try to drill him inside. Out in the field we’re all shading to left, hoping for a pop-up. The play is at first. The A’s have speed on the bases, a single will score both the tying and winning runs, so if Trenton hits anything playable, we’ll go for the out at first and get this thing over with.
Trenton is in the box. Eddie goes into his windup, a huge, slow delivery to the plate that takes forever. Then the ball explodes from his hand at ninety-eight miles per hour. And it moves. Eddie’s pitch is perfect; it bursts out of his hand looking like it will hit the outside of the plate, then darts inside. To hit heat like that, you have to guess where the ball will be when it reaches you and start your swing just as the pitcher releases it. Trenton starts his swing in time and his guess is dead-on. He’s leaning back in the box with the bat choked in tight against his body and he lays wood right on it. The guy is a monster. Even handcuffed by a pitch like that, he launches the ball skyward.
It’s coming at me. When it flys off the bat, it shoots up at the kind of angle that screams pop-up and on any given day, it’s a ball that should fall just short of the warning track in right-center. But today the wind is up. It’s blowing out from behind the plate and as I start drifting back to the wall I can see the ball get caught up there, dancing and blowing out on the currents. The left fielder, Dan Shelton, is moving in. But I call him off: I have the ball. This is my ball. I know the runners are streaking to beat out a single. I know that cocky bastard Trenton is moving slowly down the first base line, waiting to break into a home run trot. But this is no home run ball, I can see that. This is no homer. It’s gonna be close because the wind is really moving it around up there, but this is no homer. The play is gonna be right at the wall. If I’m not perfect I’ll flub the catch, it’ll drop in, and we’ll lose the game.
The ball carries farther than I thought it would. It’s going over. It’s a homer. The crowd is screaming, willing the ball over the wall. I have sudden visions of Carlton Fisk waving his arm, willing his home run fair.
I put on a burst to the wall and jump, stabbing my glove into the air, and feel the comfortable thump of the ball coming to rest in the woven pocket of my glove. I drop to the ground, cradling the ball, my ball, my World Series–winning fucking ball. And the Oakland Coliseum goes berserk. I
am mobbed by my team. The rest is a blur leading to the champagne-drenched locker room.
There are microphones and celebrities and a call from the president and Eddie wins the Series MVP and drags me up to the podium and says he wants to share it with me. Someone brings my folks back to my locker and they’re both crying and we hug and laugh and gradually things start to settle down a bit. I’m twenty-two. I’ve spent four years as a Minor League phenom and now I’m a star in my Major League rookie season. I have everything I ever wanted and my whole life is waiting for me and it just sparkles. My parents head for home, the strangers clear the locker room and I start to get undressed.
I am unbuttoning my jersey. As I turn to my locker, Rich is standing there right in front of it. He’s still seventeen. He has beautiful long brown curly hair that drops to his shoulders and this goofy smile that chicks just eat up. He’s wearing sneakers, black jeans and his favorite Scorpions T-shirt. I am so happy to see him.
—Hey, Rich, man. How’d you get in here?
—Just snuck in, man.
—Wow! Wow, you look great. How are you, man?
—Good, I’m good. But you! Hey, talk about wow.
—Can you believe it?
—Sure, man, everybody can. There was never any question. I mean, come on.
—Thanks. Thanks, man, that means a lot.
—But hey, that catch! Nobody, nobody could have called that. Fucking outstanding, man.
—That was. Man, I can’t, I can’t describe. That just felt.
—Cool, right? It just felt cool.
—Yeah, that’s it, man. It felt so fucking cool.
—Awesome, just awesome. So what now, what do you do now?
—Well, there’s a thing, you know, just a huge bash all night. Come, man, you should come.
—No, man, I’d feel weird.
—No, really.
—No, I’d love to, but it’s not for me, you know?
—Sure. Well, look, man, it’s so fucking great to see you, man. I can’t believe you’re here, you look so fucking great.
—Yeah, well, clean livin’, right?
—Right, man.
—Well, I better blow. But, man, it’s great to see you and, man, I’m just so blown away, so happy for you, the way things worked out.
—I can’t believe it. It’s my life, you know, but I can’t believe it.
—Right. Well, take care, man, and I’ll see you around.
—You too, man. Just come around, OK? I mean, I’m really happy to see you, so come by anytime, OK?
—Sure, I’ll see you soon.
And he hugs me and I watch him join the other folks leaving the room. And I think to myself, Fuck, Rich, I haven’t seen him in forever. When was the last time I saw fucking Rich? And it all starts to fall into place and I remember the last time I saw Rich and I remember his face as we flipped through the air and he looked into my eyes and I know this is all a dream and this is not my life and I gasp for air, trying to make a sound, any sound. And I wake up shouting.
It’s somewhere around 2:00 A.M., the nightmare has my heart pounding and my head disoriented and it takes me a few moments to sort out where I am and realize the implications of the sounds in the hallway: Someone is knocking on Russ’s door.
I have an aluminum baseball bat in the closet; I’ve had it for most of my life. I hear the knock again. I pull on a pair of jeans and go to my door with the bat in my hands. At the door I try not to breathe as I slip open the peephole and look out. Three feet away, two men are standing in front of Russ’s door. One is big in a hard-as-a-rock kind of way; the other is quite a bit smaller, but also in a hard-as-a-rock kind of way. They’re both black and appear to have shaved heads, although I’m not sure about that because of the matching black cowboy hats they wear. This seems to be a theme for them. In addition to the hats, they both sport black leather vests over black T-shirts and black jeans, which I’m willing to bet lead down to black cowboy boots, but I can’t tell from this angle. The smaller one nods and the larger one lifts a hand wrapped in silver rings shaped like skulls and knocks again on the door. They wait. I wait. Nothing happens. The cowboys look at each other, they both wear black wraparound sunglasses. The smaller one reaches into his vest and takes out a notepad and a pen. The big one turns and faces down the hall and the small one places the pad against the big one’s back and starts to write. His fingers are covered in silver rings shaped like naked women.
I’m sweating. It’s very cool in my apartment, but I’m sweating because these freaks three feet away from me are scarier than anything else that’s happened today. The little one finishes writing, tears the page out, tucks the pen and pad away and turns back to the door. He slips the note into the crack between the door and the jamb, but the gap is too big and the note drops to the floor. Both he and the big one bend to pick up the note at the same time. They don’t bump heads, but it’s close. They both straighten and look at each other, waiting; then they bend again at the same time. This time they bump. They straighten again and stare at each other. The big one finally picks up the paper. The little one grabs the paper from the big one, pulls up a corner of the police seal on Russ’s door and sticks the paper underneath. Then they leave.
I wait a half hour before I go out and read the note. It says, “Russ, just stopped by to say hello. Deeply concerned. Please call. Ed and Paris.”
And the number of a cell phone. I don’t touch the note, I read it as it hangs there on the door and as soon as I finish I dash back into my apartment. I have a feeling that these guys aren’t really deeply concerned about Russ at all.
I’m drunk. I’m at Paul’s and I’m drunk and I’m not sure how I got here. It had something to do with cowboys and being scared. I know I’ve done something stupid, several somethings stupid, but one big thing in particular. I’m just not sure what it is.
Edwin is working the bar. Wait, that’s wrong, I’m the bartender, I should be back there. I stumble off my stool and try to circle around the bar and someone takes me by the arm and sets me back down. It’s Yvonne. She’s telling me to take it easy and putting a glass in front of me. I take a drink. It’s water.
—What the fuck? What the fuck’s with the water? Yo, Edwin, let’s have a beer.
Edwin ambles over (he does that, he really ambles) and plops a Bud down in front of me. I take a pull and nothing comes out. I take a look at the bottle. The cap is still on.
—Yo, Edwin. The cap. Pull my cap.
—Get that cap off and you can drink that beer.
I wag my finger at him. That Edwin, he’s a crafty fucker. There’s something in my hand; it’s a beer. I try to take a drink, but the cap is still on. I twist the cap and it doesn’t pop off. I put the lip of the cap on the edge of the bar and give it a good rap with my fist. I rake my knuckles across the bar and the bottle pops out of my hand onto the floor, spritzing beer. I stuff my bleeding knuckles into my mouth.
—Yo, Edwin, I need another brew here.
—Yvonne, can you put a lid on him?
—Who the fuck are you calling Yvonne? Let’s have a beer, huh?
I feel something against my feet. I look down and Yvonne is leaning down, cleaning up a beer some numb-nuts has spilled on the floor. Fuck, that pisses me off. I bend to help her and slide off my stool and someone catches me before I bite it. It’s Amtrak John.
—Amtrak John, thanks for the save, man.
—Sure.
—You’re a big motherfucker, Amtrak.
—Yep.
—Big fucker.
—Yep.
—Wanna fight?
—Sit here.
I’m on my stool and Edwin is passing me a glass. He gives it to me with his right hand, the one with RUFF tattooed across the knuckles in ink blacker than his skin; the other hand reads TUFF. I laugh as I drink the water and most of it sprays.
—You’re a funny fucker, Edwin. A fun-ny fuck-er!
—Thanks, man.
—Those fucking tattoos, man. Fu
n-ny!
—Thanks.
—Ya wanna fight?
—Nope.
—Shit. Nobody wants ta fight. What’s with that?
I lift my head from the bar. The bar is empty and all the lights are on. Edwin is stacking stools. I get off mine and start to help him. He looks at me.
—Take it easy, man, I’ve got it.
—It’s cool, I’ll help, I can help.
—Just chill. Sit still.
I’ve got a jacket. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but it fits.
—Edwin, this my jacket?
—Yeah, that’s it. Just hang on and me an’ Yvonne will get ya home.
—Is Yvonne here? When’d she get here?
Yvonne is holding my hand. We’re on the curb. Edwin has just climbed into a cab and taken off and now Yvonne is trying to get me into a cab.
—Come on, I’ll take you home. You can stay over; I’ll make some breakfast.
—Naw, I’m gonna walk.
—Then I’ll walk with you till you get home.
Yvonne is such a sweet girl. She loves to look after me, but she just doesn’t realize I’m not safe to be around. I mean really, who knows what’s waiting for me at home?
—Nah, nah, I’ll just walk. I gotta call Rome.
—You gotta call Rome?
—Roman, I gotta call Ro-man. About the fucking cowboys.
—Jesus, are you betting football? I thought you hated football.
—Football is a bitch’s sport. Baseball, that’s a fucking game. That’s a sport.
—Come on, get in the cab.
—Nah, gonna walk home.
—Then I’m coming with you.
—Nah. Gonna walk alone. Safer that way for you.
—I don’t need you to fucking protect me from myself, for chrissake. Fucking go home alone. Fucking get home safe, will you.
I’m walking home. It’s tricky. I push off with my right foot and drift for a moment, balancing on my left. I swing my right foot out in front of myself and lurch down onto it with a jolt. Then I push off with my left and repeat the process. The walk around the block from Paul’s to my building is revealed in snapshots, a picture taken every time I plop down on my front foot. I stutter home and it feels like the very early morning darkness is illuminated by strobe light. I have a picture of my key in my hand, a picture of flipping a light switch, a picture of struggling out of my jacket and a picture of collapsing into bed. And no dreams at all.