by Ben Clabaugh
CHAPTER 6
David relaxed, watching the little vignettes of people’s lives played out in front of him as kids, adults, parents, and groups swept past. A chubby nine-year old, his brow furrowed and lower lip thrust defiantly out, looking like he was dragging a reluctant dog on a leash, hauled his already peaked and harried-looking father into the concession line. Four teenage boys wearing tank tops and baggy cargo shorts ducked in and out of the crowd, chasing one another in some endless, pointless contest. A young woman strode unsteadily by on her high, cork-soled sandals, her long hair falling down past the tie of her bikini top, ignoring the thin, crew-cut letterman following just behind and to her right, holding sweating cups of Coke in each hand, and a tub of popcorn wedged between his elbow and his chest. A man and woman huddled next to the stainless steel condiment island topped with mustard, ketchup, and relish dispensers, their hands moving in short, chopping motions, keeping perfect time with the movement of their thin, angry lips. The man held his hands out in a “How should I know?” gesture. The woman spun on her heel and stalked into the tunnel.
Another man emerged from the tunnel holding a pennant, his face pale and tight. He paused as he emerged into the main walkway, looking right then left. He stood on his tiptoes trying to see over the crowd. He scanned the concession lines, glanced back the way he had come, then took off to the right, searching.
David felt himself pulled to the left. Looking down, he realized he was still holding Shelton’s hand. He let go, and stopped.
“Where’re you going?”
Shelton waved for David to follow. David saw his dad was fifth in line, shook his head, and jogged to catch up.
“Shelton, where…?”
Shouts and curses lifted from the passing throng as Shelton darted across the flow. David danced after him.
“Why don'tcha put a leash on that retard?” one man growled, shaking Coke that had sloshed over the rim of his cup from his dripping hand.
Shelton was standing outside the exit to the men’s room, his hand resting on the shoulder of a little boy of about fiver years old. The boy was sniffling loudly, and his eyes were swollen and red. His lower lip drew into his mouth with each shaky breath, and he made little, “Huh, Huh,” sounds as he exhaled.
David arrived at Shelton’s side in time to hear the boy say his name was “Tuh….Tuh…., Tommy.” Shelton smiled and held out his hand. Tommy looked up at Shelton. David could almost hear all the warnings about talking to strangers playing inside Tommy’s head as the little boy glanced from Shelton to him, then back to Shelton. Finally, he wiped the tears from his face, smiled at Shelton, and grabbed his hand. Shelton turned and reached for David’s hand. David pulled back, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, whispered, “Shelton, what are you doing?”
Without answering, Shelton turned and began walking back the way they had come, towing Tommy along by the hand. Tommy looked up at Shelton with a bemused look of both admiration and affection. David recognized the look. He had seen it in Janie’s eyes many times. He took a deep breath, pressed his knuckles against his eyes grown suddenly hot, and followed.
“Shelton,” David said, walking along, alternating his attention between Shelton’s blank, half-smiling face and avoiding getting trampled in the crowd. “We have to find his parents.”
Shelton ignored him. David spotted his dad at a condiment table guarding a pile of foil-wrapped hotdogs and three red and white Coke cups, sweeping his gaze back and forth. He tugged Shelton’s sleeve and took off toward his father. Shelton continued walking past with Tommy in tow.
“Where’s he going?” David’s dad asked, raising a hand. “And who’s the kid?”
A moment later, the worried-looking man with the pennant raced toward them, his face crumbling to an expression of vast relief. He scooped Tommy up and hugged him, whispering into the little boy’s ear. Tommy giggled. His dad then knelt, placing him gently on the ground. He looked his boy over from head to foot before fixing Shelton with a suspicious stare.
“Just what do you think you were doing with my boy?” the man asked.
Shelton shot a little wave and a smile at Tommy who smiled and waved back. The man reached out and grabbed Shelton’s arm, “Hey, I asked you….”
“Excuse me,” David’s dad said. “What’s the problem here?”
Tommy’s father looked up, surprised, but did not release Shelton. He stood to face David’s father.
David knew, somehow, that Shelton would not feel it necessary to explain what had happened. But he could also tell from the look on the man’s face that he would not leave without something to make up for the fear and worry he had just endured. David wasn’t sure he really knew exactly what had happened, so he decided to make something up.
David turned to his father, adopted his most earnest looking face, and explained how he and Shelton had seen little Tommy bolt through the gate and take off running all by himself followed a minute later by ‘this guy’—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Tommy’s dad. David’s father tilted his eyebrow reprovingly but did not interrupt.
“So we put two and two together, went after the kid, and brought him back here.”
David finished, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked blandly at his dad. His dad stared into his eyes as if trying to detect anything wrong with the story, then looked up, shrugged, and smiled.
“Well?” he said.
Tommy’s father looked skeptically from David to Shelton, muttered his thanks, scooped Tommy into his arms, and stalked away. Tommy, looking back over his dad’s shoulder, raised a hand and waved goodbye.
When Tommy and his father were out of sight, David’s father turned to face them.
“Now, you want to tell me what really happened?” David and Shelton exchanged glances.
“What?” David said, shrugging. “That’s what happened.” His father did not look entirely convinced. David decided to change the subject. “Where’re the hot dogs, Dad?”
David’s father started as if stung by a bee. His head whipped around, and he jogged back to the condiments table, shouting, “Hey,” at the pair of fidgety teenage boys edging toward the unattended food. The boys scampered away.
David’s dad heaped onions and relish on two of the dogs then slathered them with brown mustard, re-wrapped them, and handed one to David. David lifted the moist, warm packet to his nose and inhaled luxuriantly. Baseball was the greatest game on Earth if for no other reason than mustard, onion, and relish covered hot-dogs.
His dad held the third dog poised over the arrayed condiments. “What’ll you have, Shelton?”
Shelton eyes bulged slightly as he watched David revel in the aroma. He shrugged.
“You don’t know?”
“Never had one. Mom says they’re full of….,” he broke off, glancing at David. He shrugged again, pointed at David’s hot-dog. “Like that,” he said.
Emerging from the tunnel and into the stands was like walking into another world. The light was brighter, the sounds were sharper, and the colors deeper. Shelton gasped and blinked as if his eyes hurt. The field, spread out brilliantly below them, seemed close enough to touch. The Royals, dressed in the blinding white of their home-field uniforms had taken the field and were tossing the ball around. Shelton jumped at the sharp clap of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt. He stopped, mid-step on the concrete stairs, squinted at the catcher then looked at David accusingly.
“Where’d he get all the pads?” Shelton asked around a mouthful of hot-dog.
David shrugged. “What? He’s the catcher.”
By the time they made it to their seats, Shelton had finished his hot-dog. He sat twisting in his seat, his mustard lined mouth agape at row upon row of crowd all around him.
David felt a sharp nudge at his ribs. “Ever want to be on TV?” his dad asked pointing toward the Jumbo-Tron screen perched above the fountains in center field.
David looked up and was amazed to see himself, enlarged fifty times, star
ing slack jawed into space. He saw his father to one side, laughing and waving, but to his other side, Shelton sat with his head down, one hand covering his forehead so his face could not be seen.
“Hey Shel!” David called, reaching out to pull Shelton’s hand away from his face. “Look!” he yelled, pointing toward the screen.
A moment later the scene flashed to another group sitting quietly one moment, laughing, jumping up and down, and waving wildly the next. David slumped back down in his seat.
“Aw man, what’d you do that for? You missed it!”
Unconcerned, Shelton shrugged with one shoulder, and around a huge bite of hot dog, said, “I don’t like to get my picture taken.”
Before David could respond, the crowd roared to its feet as the home team took the field.
