by Nathan Roden
The night’s crowd was light. It was a Wednesday night with preseason baseball. It was a good crowd, though—Babe’s kind of crowd.
If one hundred sixty two games plus the post-season was not enough baseball for you, then you, my friend, are a baseball fan. But even he couldn’t concentrate on the game for long. He had too much on his mind. He had every intention of drinking himself silly. Maybe even stupid. So, every time he returned from the bathroom he moved a little closer to a familiar corner booth; a little dark, a little more isolated but still close to the bar; and the bathroom.
Babe started to wave off the bottle of Samuel Adams that Lewis brought him, but instead he took it. He then surprised Lewis by ordering a Boston Harbor Iced Tea. He downed the beer in two swallows.
He ordered a ‘B-HIT’, the popular acronym for Lewis’s drink. Cries of ‘B-HIT me!’ were heard at the bar during any evening, although the later the evening got the cry usually degenerated first to “B-He Me’, on its way to ‘B-Me’.
Babe took dead aim on a night of degenerating acronyms for himself. By the seventh inning stretch he was singing along with some of his inebriated bar mates who were singing along with the televisions,
“God Bless America. My Home…Sweeeeeeet. Hooooooooooome!”
“Mr. Babe, you’re still not driving, right?” Lewis asked as he sat down a fresh B-HIT.
“Nope. Just point me toward home at two o’clock and if you don’t hear from me then I’ve missed my house and I have to walk all the way around the world through China, and I’ll be ver…very, very late.”
“You might want to slow down a little, Mr. Babe,” Lewis said.
“I might stop by Hong Kong on my way. They have some beautiful girls in Hong Kong. Do you know Abeccica? Uh…Reebok?…Rebecca! She’s beautiful. I have to pee.” Babe said, getting to his feet.
Lewis watched Babe to make sure he could make it to the bathroom. He hadn’t seen Babe drink like this before. He was a good time guy and funny as hell. But tonight he was alone and he was wasted. Lewis hoped that Babe wasn’t completely miserable over the loss of his wife. The drink he had just given Babe had hardly any alcohol in it at all and he hadn’t added it to Babe’s tab.
Babe sat down and soon the baseball game ended in a lopsided loss for the home team. Lewis and Leo took the opportunity to kick off the new season’s tradition, one they started the previous year.
A local young aspiring singer had recorded a song that became a minor hit. This came on the heels of the young man’s brief appearance on American Idol which ended with his being removed from the competition due some kind of controversy that was never explained. Leo knew the young man from high school.
In a brilliant move, Lewis and Leo played the song at the conclusion of big Red Sox losses and it never failed to lift the spirits at the bar. On nights that the bar might have emptied out with dejected fans, the song brought back the party.
A cheer greeted Leo as his voice boomed out of the speakers in his mock DJ voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen—please welcome to our invisible stage, country and western sensation Wylie Westerhouse and the hit single, ‘So This is what it’s Like to be a Cubs Fan.’ “
The catchy tune worked like a charm and the chorus always turned into a sing-a-long.
*So this is what it’s like to be a Cubs fan,*
*It’s only May, but there’s no way we’re climbing out of this cellar, man!*
*The season’s just beginning, but it’s the bottom of the ninth inning.*
*It’s just a game and we’re doing the best we can!*
*So this is what it’s like to be a Cubs fan.*
Cheers, high fives, smiles, and laughter erupted at the conclusion of the song. It was good, cheap fun, even if it was just a spring training game that nobody really cared much about.
The boys turned over the speaker system to the jukebox. Babe swayed with his eyes closed to the intro and first verse of the classic Bad Company song, Feel like Makin’ Love. Then he banged his head, slapped his table and sang along to the chorus as well as the signature guitar riff.
Du du DUH
Du du DUH
Du du DUH
Lewis appeared again, setting yet another Boston Harbor Iced Tea in front of him. Babe looked at Lewis.
“I didn’t—”
Lewis pointed.
“From the gentleman at the bar.”
Babe looked toward the bar and squinted. The movement of people blurred his vision. His eyes came to rest on the only still figure in sight.
Shit. The. Bed. Suck me off with a breast pump and fuck me a-running.
Gabriel Athas.
Babe let his head drop.
No, no, no, no. He couldn’t deal with this. But what was he going to do? Stare at the table until closing time? He couldn’t just ignore him. That was just damned impolite. That was what ugly people did. But this guy had freaked him the fuck out when he was sober. Babe raised his head. He looked at Athas, raised the glass and nodded. Gabriel Athas returned the nod. Babe looked back down at the table. Jesus. He thought. My hands are shaking. I’m going to tell him I’m drunk, that I don’t feel well, and I’m going home.
Babe turned in his seat and looked toward the bar, but Gabriel Athas was gone. Babe waited a few minutes to see if he would return, but he didn’t.
Babe moved to a seat at the bar and waited for Lewis to notice him.
“The guy that sent the drink over, did you see him leave?” Babe asked.
“Yeah, I did. He wasn’t, you know, bothering you, was he? ‘Cause we’ll keep his ass out of here if—”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“That’s good, Mr. Babe.; real good. ‘Cause he paid cash, and if I could get a few more tippers like that in here, I could retire at thirty.”
“I’m going to call it a night, Lewis. Where’s Leo?” Babe asked.
“Throwing trash, I think.”
“Tell him I said good night and thanks for everything. Love ya, man.”
“Love ya, Mr. Babe. Take care of yourself.”
Babe left the bar and walked to the taxi stand. There wasn’t one in sight so he sat down. Ten minutes passed. He pulled his phone out and saw that his battery was almost dead. He called the taxi number that was advertised on the bench and was told that there were two major conventions in town and consequently, taxis were booked solid.
Just great, Babe thought.
He stood up and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He started walking toward his office. The thought of another night sleeping on the hard mattress of the apartment left him depressed, and on cue his lower back seized in protest. The only alternative was his bicycle, and he considered it briefly until a sharply cold gust of wind blew past him, penetrating every layer of clothing he had on. Winter was leaving New England, but not without a fight, and tonight the winds were the winter’s weapon as it fought for survival.
Babe walked for three blocks and left behind the lights of the neon signs and the fading shouts of a few other people leaving Momma’s. He walked quickly with his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders raised against the cold wind. He felt the first few drops of light rain hit his freezing ears.
Just fucking great. How about some locusts, a few thousand tiny frogs, some running sores, rivers of blood, maybe.
He raised his head at the sound of an approaching voice. Someone, looked like just a kid, was loping toward him on the sidewalk; starting, stopping, walking in a crooked line.
The kid was wearing jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers that were untied. His head snapped to one side and then the other, like he was…he was.
Talking to himself. Just fucking even more great.
The kid appeared to be teleporting from one side of the sidewalk to the other with a motion blur between the two bodies.
“Shit,” Babe said to himself.
Fucking druggies. Just keep walking—don’t look at him, get past him, keep walking…
Babe
looked up just in time to see the boy lurch backward as if someone had picked him up by his collar and the back of his jeans and then launched him. The boy crashed into Babe’s chest, knocking him backward and nearly to the ground.
Babe grabbed hold of the kid’s sweatshirt and flung him sideways where he hit solidly against a brick wall with a thud. He slid slowly and silently to a seated position. He started to whimper and then began to cry.
Babe was breathing hard and his head began to throb, His vision was blurred by the rain and the alcohol fog. He slowly knelt in front of the boy. The boy’s hooded head was still down.
“Aw, shit, kid, I’m sor—”
The boy wasn’t crying. He was giggling.
What the fu…
The kid spoke without looking up, the voice of a child, yet deep.
“They know who you are.”
Babe backed away.
“Who knows who I am?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“The ones that hate everybody.”
The kid began giggling again.
Babe scrambled backward in shock as the kid whipped up his head—his jet-black eyes were full of hate—his eye sockets deep and dark.
He bared his sharp, yellow teeth.
“And they REALLY hate YOU!”
Babe took another few awkward steps backward before he turned and walked quickly away. A few more steps and he heard the voice behind him.
“They really hate you, Mister Babe.”
Babe spun around and…there was no one there.
“Oh, God.” Babe croaked. “Too f…I’ve lost it. I’m losing my mucking…mind.”
His knees were quaking. He stumbled to a retaining wall and sat down—in the rain; rain that he no longer felt. He made himself stop chewing on his finger and felt good about having that much self-control. He stood, still shaking, and looked all around several times before continuing toward his office.
Babe approached the corner that was his last turn before he reached the office. A taxi stopped at the intersection. His sign said ‘off duty’, but Babe was desperate. He ran to the intersection and rapped on the passenger window. The driver lowered the glass a couple of inches and pointed up at the roof.
”I’m off duty, buddy. I gotta call it a night, sorry.”
“Please, I’ll make it worth your while,” Babe yelled at the glass.
“Hold on.” He reached for his wallet and… it wasn’t there.
He frantically tried every pocket— twice.
“Whaddya got, buddy? No money? I gotta be up in a few hours. I got honey-dos out the ass, all right? You got money or not?”
Babe finally remembered the stash he had made in his coat months ago inside the little zippered pocket in the lining. Two twenty dollar bills were folded as small as he could get them.
“I got it. I got it. Forty bucks to Jamaica Plain, okay? Deal?”
“Show me the money,” the cabbie laughed. He watched as Babe stood in the rain fighting to get the money out of the tiny zippered pocket and then fumbled to get it unfolded.
When the driver was satisfied he had a payday he opened the door, and sped off with his biggest tip of the day.
Babe crawled out of the taxi and it sped away. He stood in place, his legs quivering and exhausted. His brain begged him to collapse where he stood, but then he thought of being poked awake in the bright morning sun by the blunt end of a ruler.
The rulers were held by the women of the Homeowners Association, all of them wearing nuns outfits and making “Harumph!” sounds and telling him what a disappointment he was to the neighborhood.
He fumbled the front door unlocked. Mr. Pendleton did not greeting him so Babe assumed that the pup was asleep. Babe crept as quietly as he could to the sun room and reached for the light switch.
He heard Mr. Pendleton begin to whimper. The room filled with light.
A round table, the one that held the largest of the three houseplants in the room, was overturned. The clay flower pot had exploded into fifty pieces and dirt was spread over a fifteen foot ellipse; it was not a catastrophe, or a tragedy, or the end of the world.
But Babe fell to his knees, anyway.
He had lunch at his desk that day, as he had for two weeks. Sometimes he didn’t even open the sack. Rarely did he finish what he had brought. And that day he had a bad feeling that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He was unable to concentrate. He had only one appointment in the afternoon. He asked Tom to cover for him and he left the office at one thirty. He bought a bouquet of summer flowers on his way home.
“Jill! I took off early and I brought you something,” he announced through the entryway.
He assumed that Jill was in the back yard. He continued toward the back door and through the sun room…
A flower pot lay broken in the middle of the floor; dirt was splayed in an ellipse. One of Jill’s gloves and her silly old gardening hat lay on the table. Jill lay on the day bed, wearing one glove. She had lost a shoe.
She was gone.
Babe sat on the floor in front of her for…he had no idea how long. He stroked her hair and he stroked her face. Her face was peaceful.
By every appearance, she had done what she could to make sure that this was as easy on Babe as she could make it—because that was who Jill was.
“Jack Englemann, here. Oh, Babe, I didn’t notice it was your—”
“Dad?” Babe croaked.
“Babe? Is every—”
“Dad? Can you…come?”
“Ten minutes, Babe. Ten minutes.”
Babe saw Mr. Pendleton creep past him out of the corner of his eye.
“It’s okay, boy. Come here,” Babe whispered.
Mr. Pendleton left the room. Babe sat in the floor, trying to make some sense of everything while at the same time trying to think of nothing at all.
Mr. Pendleton returned to the room, gingerly carrying one of Babe’s new slippers in his mouth. He dropped the slipper beside Babe’s leg and lay his head on top of it, looking up at Babe with sympathetic eyes. Babe pulled Mr. Pendleton into his lap and buried his face into the puppy’s back.
A limb in need of trimming tapped against the glass at the corner of the room, but the tapping that Babe heard was strangely rhythmic. And it was getting louder. Four taps. Then, four more. Then the doorbell.
Three fifteen in the morning—on the night from hell? Why am I not surprised? Oh, please, oh please, oh please go the fuck away, whoever you are.
Babe sat in the middle of the sun room floor, rocking back and forth while he held onto Mr. Pendleton.
The doorbell rang again, and when Babe loosened his grip, Mr. Pendleton ran to the front door and barked. Babe walked silently to a living room window and slowly pulled back a corner of a curtain.
He groaned out loud.
Nooooo. No fucking way. I’m in a trance and I’m inside of a Hitchcock movie.
I’m going to wake up and I’ll be sitting in a wheelchair in front of a picture window at Belleview. I’ll try to tell them that it’s all a mistake but they’ll never believe me.
“Good morning, Mr. Babelton. So, you’re having one of your good days. Will we need to get your jacket without sleeves or do you think that you can behave yourself?”
The doorbell rang again. And again.
He knows I’m in here. I don’t know how, but he knows.
Babe opened the door.
Gabriel Athas had backed up beyond the porch and was looking up at the windows.
“I thought you were probably at home,” he said.
“Did you want to collect for the drink? Four fifty, right? Will you take a check?” Babe said.
“Of course not,” Gabriel said, pulling Babe’s wallet from his coat pocket.
“I did not want you to spend the rest of the night canceling credit cards.”
“Oh, wow. That’s…where did you find it?” Babe asked
“On the sidewalk, about three blocks from Momma’s,” Gabriel said.
�
��But you left before I did…”
“I left, yes. But I did not go home. I probably walked fifteen miles yesterday. I told you that I did not want to be inside.”
“Well, yes you did. Along with a lot of other weird shit,” Babe said.
He looked around Gabriel, up and down the street.
“Did you walk here?”
“I was in the process, but a very nice policeman stopped and asked me if I need a ride. He dropped me here. In fact, he said he thought he had dropped someone here before,” Gabriel said.
“Hey, who is this fellow?”
Gabriel bent down on one knee as Mr. Pendleton ran between Babe’s legs. Babe tried to catch him because he had no idea how Mr. Pendleton reacted to strangers. Mr. Pendleton jumped up on Gabriel’s knee and began licking him in the face. Gabriel laughed and spoke baby-talk to him, vigorously ruffling Mr. Pendleton’s fur and kissing him back.
“Mr. Pendleton, please allow Mr. Athas to breathe.”
“Mr. Pendleton? No way. ‘What do you think the Ram’s chances are this year, Joe? I think we’re going to the Super Bowl, and I think we’re gonna win.’”
Mr. Pendleton rolled over on his back and was receiving a brisk tummy rub.
“You know Heaven Can Wait,” Babe whispered.
Gabriel stood, giving Mr. Pendleton a final scratch behind the ears.
“One of my favorites. That’s where you got the name, right? I hope so, anyway,” Gabriel said.
“Yeah,” Babe said.
“Well, I won’t keep you, Mr. Babelton. Good night.”
Gabriel turned to leave.
“Mr. Athas. It’s three in the morning. Where do you live?” Babe asked.
“Uptown. But, as I mentioned earlier, I have been in a rather extreme environment for probably longer than was healthy and my mind seems to feel the need to…reset. I’ve always found there to be no better mental and emotional therapy than walking.”
