Willow was the first one out the bedroom door, and I followed, glancing at the TV as Jeopardy host Alex Trebek was introducing one of the contestants.
As I headed for the front door to let Willow out, she headed back to Andy instead and lay down on the floor. “Come on, girl,” I said. But she just lay there.
It was then that I noticed Andy’s overturned glass and a small pool of vodka on the floor. His eyeglasses were also on the floor, and Andy was lying motionless. I walked closer as C came out of the bedroom. “It looks like Andy spilled his drink,” I said.
C picked up the glass, knelt down, and looked at Andy. “Oh, no,” was all he said. He picked up Andy’s hand and held it, searching for a pulse. Then he put his ear to Andy’s chest, but Andy’s body was limp. C reached up and gently closed Andy’s eyelids and looked up at me. “Andy has passed on,” he said softly.
“What?!” I was stunned.
“Andy died, Richard,” he said.
I was in shock and began to tremble, but C was like a physician at the bedside of an old friend who had just taken his last breath. “It’s okay, Richard,” he said, seeing my distress. “It’s been coming. It was time.” He moved Andy’s arms across his chest and then took a blanket and gently pulled it over him.
I had never been this close to death before. Even when my mother and father died, I had not been at their bedsides.
My mind began to process what had just happened. Andy the Weed had died. He had finally gotten a place to live, a bed, and a TV. He died on his own time, just like he wanted. After sixteen years of sleeping on hard benches, in dumpsters, under cars, and in doorways, Andy went to sleep for the final time on the same living room floor that William Gates III might have played on as a child.
Andy left over sixty-three thousand dollars behind in the bank—the remainder of the money he had waited for and needed all those years on the street.
C, still kneeling, clasped his hands, said a brief personal prayer, and then looked at me, grinning slightly. “Well, I’ll bet Andy’s already in heaven, under the sheets with a woman who looks like Vanna White,” he said.
There was no phone in the apartment. “Would you give me a ride up to the pay phone by the ferry terminal?” C asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“I’ll call the landlord,” he said. “His number is on the fridge.” He walked toward the kitchen. “He’ll need to know about Andy, and then I’ll come back and see what needs to be done.”
“I’ll be glad to help,” I said.
“Good. Thanks.”
We called the landlord. The paramedics came to pick up Andy for the last time. And I took C back to the Armadillo. I gave C a hug before he climbed into his home, and, as always, he held up two fingers and said, “Peace. Be Safe.”
I drove the van to the Methodist church parking lot, where we had been sleeping for the past week, and quickly began preparing our bed for the night. It had been a long day in my homeless world. The pastor of the church was working late in his office, and the light illuminated the van. He walked to the window and waved to Willow and me. We waved back.
The wind was picking up as Willow and I climbed into the back of the van once again. I struggled into my sleeping bag, and Willow pawed impatiently to join me. Then she ducked under the covers and jockeyed for a warm and comfortable spot.
Lying on my back, I put my hands behind my head. The gusting winds were causing the tall fir trees beside the church to sway. The light from the pastor’s office shone through them and created shadows that looked like mammoth wings slowly moving up and down.
I thought of the kindness of C and the things he had done for Andy. C had “paid it forward” for Andy. With very little, C had done something very big.
Something I would not have done.
When everybody else had given up and considered Andy just a charming nuisance who was drunk all the time, urinating on himself, C picked him up and cleaned him off and restored his grace and dignity. The two established a graceful esprit de corps, doing little things like washing socks and getting candy bars—without nuts. Andy did his best to do what he could in return. The last few months of Andy’s life were better than the preceding sixteen years, because of C.
And I considered that dreadful thing I feared the most now: the future.
Would I end up living like Andy? I asked myself. When my van finally broke down, would I then have to sleep in a doorway? Would I drink all day just to subdue any hope or dream I might have? Would Willow be able to survive? Or would she get killed just trying to stay with me?
I was tired of thinking. It was time to rest. I closed my eyes and rolled over on my side. “Ouch,” I said, feeling a sharp pain on my hip. I reached down to rub the pain and felt the two hard objects in my pocket. They were the lucky rocks Katie had given me at Sally’s that morning. I fished the rocks out of the pocket of my jeans and held them up to the window. I noticed that they sparkled in the light that was streaming in, and I slowly rubbed them together.
“This first rub is for Andy,” I whispered. I held the rocks tightly in my hand until I fell asleep.
Chapter 23
THE REAL FIELD OF DREAMS
Winter can be monotonous in the Northwest. The climate is never particularly harsh, which is one of its great attractions. You’re no more likely to freeze in the winter than you are to broil in the summer, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t cold and miserable sometimes—just not the deep-freeze kind of cold you get in the Midwest or the Northeast.
But the dreariness can penetrate your psyche. People with financial means become snowbirds (wintering in warmer climes like Arizona), frequent travelers (to places like Mexico or Hawaii), or winter-sports fanatics (racing to the ski slopes at the first hint of snow). The rest of us just have to find a way to survive.
Northwesterners have an amazingly high incidence of Seasonal Affective Disorder—SAD. (Now, that is a perfectly descriptive acronym!) They spend the season of shortened days and seemingly endless nights popping pills and seeking out “natural light therapy.”
For those of us who battle the demons of depression all the time, the low, flat, gray skies and frequent drizzle are even more challenging. I had struggled every hour, every day, and every week during the cold and dreary months of January, February, and March.
Spring has always been intoxicating to me, for all the reasons that great poets and writers have recorded over the centuries: the fresh smells and the vibrant colors; the trees budding and the bulbs blooming; the sap rising and the life-blood surging in nature and in man. I had no definite dreams for the future, nor even any plans to change my current reality. It just felt good to realize one balmy day that I might not shiver that night when I crawled into the back of the van to go to sleep. And Willow was delighted to romp and frolic in the fragrant blades of fresh, new grass.
Then there was the sportswriter in me, and my deep love of the spring sport of baseball. It had been one of my favorite pastimes since my childhood in Ohio. Spring and baseball, now that was a winning combination! It seemed to hold out promise that anything was possible. It reminded me of one of my favorite movies of all time, Field of Dreams, where the blue-eyed Kevin Costner hears voices from an Iowa cornfield telling him, “If you build it, he will come.”
It was a movie about things that aren’t real ... but people believe in things that aren’t real all the time if they want to believe. That’s why the movie touched the hearts and triggered the tears of so many thousands of viewers. The only ones who could see what was happening on that cornfield in Iowa were those who believed.
My friend C was good at that.
And Bremerton had its own Field of Dreams story.
It was a beautiful day in May when C showed up at Sally’s for lunch with a smallish leather baseball glove and a scuffed softball he had purchased for a dollar at the thrift shop. The magnolia trees were blooming, and the pink, red, and white rhododendrons delighted the eye. The months of rain were over.
/> But inside Sally’s stone walls, gloom still had its firm grip on many. There were no jobs to rush to. No reason to hurry outside. It was still a dark time, with nothing to look forward to. C couldn’t fix all the problems of the world that spring day, but he had a brilliant idea that just might brighten this small corner: a softball game!
As I was savoring my mac-and-cheese lunch, I watched C work his game plan; he had to convince the Major to sponsor a softball game for the crew. I couldn’t quite hear the conversation, but I saw C pounding the softball into the glove and the Major’s head bobbing up and down as he began to catch the vision. It was as if C was hypnotizing the Major with the smell of the leather glove and the sound of the ball popping into the mitt.
The Major was a baseball man. He couldn’t say no.
So, the Major took some of the money that people put in those little red bell-ringers’ pots at Christmastime and went shopping for some used gloves, bats, balls, and bases at secondhand shops and garage sales. Four blocks from the Salvation Army building was Carpenter Field, sitting empty every day, just waiting for this flock to come and play. And C and the Major made it happen.
Every Wednesday for the next twelve weeks, from one to three thirty in the afternoon, the people at Sally’s walked up the street to play softball. It was definitely something to look forward to.
The roster would change each week as one or two would go to jail, or get out of jail, or OD, or get so drunk they couldn’t get out of bed. But somehow the teams would get put together. Word spread, and soon it grew to the point where there were regularly two full teams and even fans in the stands.
Little miracles happened. One man got out of jail at noon and convinced a sheriff ’s deputy to give him a ride to the ballpark so he could be there in time for the game. Another man gave up drinking on Wednesday mornings so he could play.
The best game of the season was the last one. The participants were people who had had their dreams crushed all their lives and those who had never had a chance to dream at all. This was the lineup:
US:
First base: Donna. At 340 pounds a big target, in the vein of Boog Powell. Afraid to catch any ball thrown faster than twenty miles an hour. Closes her eyes and puts up her glove as the ball arrives. Sometimes catches it. Ill-suited for the position, but she wants to play first base, and at 340 pounds, nobody is going to argue with her. Bats: right. Throws: left.
Second base: Justin. Young, strong, and looks like he has been sniffing paint thinner for years. Good glove, but throws hard and wild, which scares the hell out of Donna. Everyone is on alert when the ball is hit to Justin, because he throws the ball randomly to any base. Bats: left. Throws: wildly.
Shortstop: C. A great brain and a spirited player, but with poor eyesight, he plays the game by ear. Seems to play better after two nickel bags of marijuana. Bats: right. Throws: right.
Third base: Richard. Looking for a sweet diversion—a chance to be in the Sun newspaper. Takes Zoloft for depression and likes the zany feeling. Truly delusional—says he is going to be a famous writer some day. Bats: right. Throws: wherever.
Left field: Mary. A spunky gal. 97 pounds, but plays with the determination of Pete Rose in his heyday. A victim of abuse by her ex-husband, who broke her arm once and another time put her in the hospital for three weeks with a broken jaw. She lived in a safe house for six months. Mary shows up for every game and is always picked last. Has struck out thirty straight times before this game. Bats: right. Throws: as far as she can.
Center field: David. A Goliath, at 6-foot-4 and 220 pounds. In the navy and a volunteer at Sally’s kitchen, he is always picked first because he can hit the ball very, very far—the only player to hit the ball out of Carpenter Field. Bats: you betcha! Throws: hard enough to sting your hand.
Right field: Bob. A gifted musician who plays saxophone and piano and would make Sinatra and Gershwin proud, but in a town captivated by rap-crap and tits-and-ass country music, he is now relegated to pressure-washing buildings and pounding nails. Like all great artists, he is moody and has drunk too much on occasion, and the police frequently dislike his tune. He’s done the “jailhouse rock” more than once. Bats: he’s going to have a big hit someday. Throws: right.
Pitcher: Tony. A chronic alcoholic, he shakes most of the time, which serves as a diversion for the opposing batters. Tony can be one hell of a pitcher. But, like all pitchers, he has to be “on”—that is, just enough alcohol so he is not drunk. Too much and he can’t pitch; too little and he shakes so much he has to go get a bottle of wine.
Catcher: Bill. Definitely bipolar and psychotic. Likes to chat with the batter and the pitcher and often carries on conversations with himself about ghosts, CIA agents, and lightning striking out of a clear blue sky. This seems to disturb the opposing batters (a nice complement to Tony’s shaking).
THEM:
First base: Joseph. Tall and lean and just out of jail for assault. He can hit all right. Bats: right. Throws: right.
Second base: Steven. Served two terms for robbery. He can definitely steal. Bats: right. Throws: right.
Shortstop: Gentleman Jake. The Shoeless Joe Jackson of the lineup. Wears no shoes because his feet were so damaged while slogging through the rice paddies of Vietnam that it hurts to walk. Good glove; slow on the base path. A lefty all the way.
Third base: Grady. 6-foot-2, 195 pounds, and strong, but his right foot was injured when he stepped on a mine during a tour in Vietnam. At fifty-four, he still has to walk with a cane, and to his credit he even plays third base with a cane. Slow on the base path.
Left field: Jason. Now sixteen, he spent three years living with his mother and sister in an abandoned car in a ravine just outside Bremerton. Did not go to school for three years and has never played softball until this summer. Runs like a rabbit being chased by a dog, but doesn’t understand the concept of stopping at first on a single, second on a double. He just keeps running. Our team often doesn’t tag him out, because it’s just too much fun to see him run and score, and everybody gets a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Center field: Mike. Also calls himself Ike, Spike, and Tyke—four different names and four different personalities. He is a master of the quadruple soliloquy, often talking to all four of “himself” at the same time. Mike is the nice guy; Ike is tough; Spike is just plain mean; and Tyke is the child of the foursome. With four of him, it was difficult to make out a lineup card, but his teammates didn’t care as long as one of him caught the ball.
Right field: James. 6-foot-2, 185 pounds, black, all-city football and basketball player who came from a poor family and made some bad choices. Stole a car and did his time. His felony record keeps him from holding a good job. Graceful and gifted, now twenty, he deserves a break. Gets a hit every time and never drops a fly ball. Bats: switch hitter. Throws: right.
Pitcher: Major Baker. The Pedro Martinez of Salvation Army softball, but he throws pitches that the less athletically endowed can hit. Good bat and good field, but slowed by a groin injury. Bats: right. Throws: left.
Catcher: Lyle. A whimsical fellow, who seems to find amusement in the specter of the game events unfolding. At 6-foot-1 and 138 pounds, he appears to need a couple good meals. Has a distinctive batting technique that features no backswing. He sort of swats at the ball like he is killing a fly. It works. Batting 600. Bats: right. Throws: right.
So read the “Bad News Bears” lineup for softball at Carpenter Field on this perfect sunny spring day.
The fans got there early (noon) because Wednesday was always sacklunch day, when, instead of a hot lunch inside, Sally’s handed out small brown paper bags for lunch with a bologna-and-cheese sandwich, chips, an apple, butterscotch pudding, and a small milk to go. It was the perfect pregame meal for players and fans to enjoy before the action began. The bleacher bums, about twelve in attendance for this key matchup, would then use the brown paper bags to disguise the beverages of choice (or budget) that they’d snuck in. The Major, tolerant though he was, disappro
ved, of course, but made a compromise. He knew they were going to drink someplace. Better that it was here, where they were safe.
This epic began with THEM at bat. Our pitcher, Tony, got off to a shaky start, allowing six runs on ten hits. US could not retaliate in the first inning, as Donna grounded out, Justin singled, C hit a wild fly to center, and Mary struck out for the 31st time in the season.
US rallied back for two runs in the second, with a 360-foot blast into a blackberry bush by David to lead off the inning and an inside-the-park homer by Bob when Mike, Ike, Spike, or Tyke misplayed a long fly ball and then threw it to Jason, who fired wildly over the first-baseman’s head as Bob was rounding second. “You should have caught the damn ball,” Ike yelled at Mike. “I should beat your ass,” Spike growled. “Everyone makes mistakes,” Mike replied. “It wasn’t my fault,” Tyke whined.
It appeared a big inning was possible when US loaded the bases with two outs, but the excitement ended when Mary struck out for the 32nd straight time.
Tony seemed to settle down after a trip to the men’s room, where it was quite probable he had stashed a bottle of vodka. He shut out THEM for two straight innings. His pitching was complemented by Jason’s perfect grab of a sharply hit ground ball. He then fired it straight to Donna, who stuck out her mitt and caught the ball, much to her own amazement. Her catch inspired every player on the field.
Breakfast at Sally's Page 25
