JACKIE: Forgive me, listeners, I get a little excited when
it comes to saying yes to life. Let’s be honest, being a
Woohoo Woman in today’s world takes nerve. Sometimes it
takes brashness. It always takes bravery and the managing
of careers, dreams, ambitions, family, romance. IT’S
REAL OUT HERE IN THESE DAYU— In these streets.
MARJ: Breathe in and breathe out, girlfriend.
JACKIE: Okay, let’s get back on topic. What were we
talking about, Marj?
MARJ: A man is a woman’s partner, but not her necessity.
It is a choice. The Woohoo Woman needs a man to
understand that the way to a woman’s heart is by listening,
and . . .
JACKIE: And by admitting that we can be brilliant and
beautiful, independent and hot, at the same time. And if
one more man whistles at me when I’m walking to my car,
I’m gonna go all Wonder Woman on his as—
MARJ: Assuming that men are listening to us right now,
I’d like to offer this to our brothers . . .
JACKIE: We want our men to love us for our dreams and
choices. We want them to hear us. We are much more than
legs and lips. The Woohoo Woman is much, much more.
MARJ: We are explorers of life. A world within a complex
world. Our controls aren’t just on and off. They’re more like
a keypad to a space shuttle on its way to another galaxy.
JACKIE: We are the friggin’ space shuttle, Marj. We control
the controls.
MARJ: Woohoo!
JACKIE: WOOHOO!
MARJ: That’s our time for today, sisters and brothers.
Time to wake up and find your Woohoo! Check us out at
WoohooWoman.com for more podcasts, and to read our
manifesto on what we stand for. Any last words, Jackie?
JACKIE: Do the friggin’ work, women. Holla!
MARJ: Next week we’re playing an oldie but goodie.
JACKIE: One of our producer, Floyd’s, favorites. We’re
taking the training wheels off and poppin’ wheelies! So
tune in to The Woohoo Woman Podcast.
For Your Safety—Please Read All Warning and Operating Signs Before Batting
We’re here
under the big lights again
with the smell of sweat, old shoes,
sugary bubblegum,
and gasoline-scented breeze.
Children run around
everywhere, and though the sign says,
No Pets Allowed,
dogs bark,
scavenge for food
off the ground.
I could be sitting
in the designated “dugout”
where parents
and tired friends go
to chill
on benches and eat snacks
when they’re bored,
but instead, I stand
behind the chain-link fence
doodling
on a vintage baseball ad
I found
in a magazine
on the ground,
while watching Walt
miss
and miss
and miss some more.
He sways back and forth
on the artificial turf
with a sparkle of hope
in his eyes.
Today is the day magic happens, he says, readying
himself. It’s Swing Time!
The sound of ball
hitting aluminum
in every lane
but his.
The protective screens
shaking
with the vibration
of each hit,
or in Walt’s case,
each miss.
Mo once told me in a baseball swing, you gotta use a toe
tap or leg kick to gather momentum.
Yeah, I’ve seen that. Why don’t you try it! I say, feigning
encouragement.
Swing repositions
his pose,
and I’m not sure he knows
what twists where,
or how to kick
while simultaneously hitting
the ball.
He has plans
for a line drive,
to crush it,
slash it,
slay it.
But in truth,
if this were a game of ducking,
he’d win.
He is getting a little better,
hitting at a slightly higher percentage,
though it would take
a mathematician
or his patient best friend
to notice, because
he has been so bad
for so, so long.
When his bat
finally meets ball,
it scatters off far right,
hits the barrier.
Walt spins around
in celebration,
grins like a crescent moon.
I’m in it to win it, Noah. Barry Baby Bonds in the house!
And though I’m slightly tired
of watching, I shout,
Keep your eyes on the ball, Swing. You got this!
Because part of me hopes
he does.
Conversation on the Way to the Mall
You text Sam?
I guess there’s no USB in here.
Dude, did you let her know to meet us?
Chill, bro, she’s coming. We need to pimp this ride.
. . . .
I guess we’ll just listen on my phone.
I already listened to the podcast. Don’t really get that
Woohoo stuff.
It was kind of layered, Noah.
So, you didn’t understand it either.
I did. They were talking about listening, and Wonder
Woman.
And don’t forget space shuttles. That’s a lot of metaphors.
You need to listen as much as possible. You’ll catch on. I’ve
been tuning in for months, and look at me.
I’m looking and I’m not impressed.
We need to think like them so we can understand them.
So, we need to listen?
Basically.
The mall
is overrated,
plus, I don’t have
enough money
for a mall gift,
so we head
to a thrift shop
Walt knows about.
In my vintage ride,
we listen to more Woohoo
to get me pumped up
to finally tell Sam
how bold
and brave
and beautiful she is.
So, you’re gonna finally do it? he asks.
Probably, I say, not convincing him. Or me.
Cruel Comparison
We pull up
bursting with
Woohoo warrior spirit,
but there she is,
standing outside
HIS car,
holding on
to HIS arm.
We walk toward them.
I look down
at my own arms
and then over at Walt’s.
It’s like we’re competing
for the skinniest hanging noodles.
I rise up
high as I can
in my high-tops,
cross my arms
and push out my biceps
with my knuckles.
Anything not to feel so
small.
Cruz
has a full beard
that would make
hipsters jealous
and guns the size of
a wrestler’s.
He drives fast,
pitches fast,
&n
bsp; and has baseball scouts trying
to keep up
like lost puppies.
Freshman year,
he tormented us,
called us ladies,
but last year
when he and Sam started dating,
he stopped.
Now, he calls us Hey you.
It’s like all the good in him
just rushed to the front
of the line,
and he got all new.
Sam has a way
of doing that—bringing out the better
in you.
Out With the Old
is the name
of the thrift store,
which smells
like perfume
and mothballs.
If you added onions,
it’d be like lit class
with Ms. Miller,
who smells
like all three
when she leans in
with hot breath
and recites
Shakespeare.
To be or not to be: that is the onion, Walt likes to say.
I laugh,
thinking about Ms. Miller
among the dizzying
racks and racks
of used clothes,
old books and records,
handmade jewelry,
weird pottery duck mugs,
frog ashtrays,
and other decades-old knickknacks.
Hey you, what’s funny? Cruz asks,
popping up
from behind a rack
of old, wooly coats
with Sam’s arms
enveloping him.
Conversation
Nothing, really. Good game yesterday.
That’s how I roll, he says, not looking at me.
HEY, NOAH, WHAT ABOUT THIS FOR YOUR
MOM? Walt screams, wearing a big ole purple church
hat. I ignore him as he holds up several more.
Look what Cruz is gonna buy me, Sam says, holding up a
shiny heart bracelet. So cliché.
Babe, you’re my heart, he says, and they kiss like nobody
and everybody’s watching. So cliché.
Stop, babe, we gotta help Noah find a birthday gift for his
mom.
YEAH, WHY DON’T Y’ALL GET A ROOM, Walt yells
out, from over by the one-dollar used books.
I gotta go, babe, Cruz, says, kissing her again. I try not
to pay attention to how long it lasts—eleven seconds—or
how his hands move up and down her back (slowly), or
how her eyes are closed and his are looking at—
Hey you, stop staring at my girl’s haunches.
Haunches? Really, Cruz, Sam says.
What? I know how you don’t like when I say—
Boy, bye. Have a great practice.
I’ll see you tonight, babe, he says, knocking over a stand
of knickknacks, not picking them up before walking out
the door.
There’s literally nothing and everything here. Let’s just
go back to the mall.
Do you have an idea of what she’d like? Sam asks.
Something my mom could take on her trip would be
cool, I say, helping pick up the mess Cruz left behind.
What about the hats and bonnets that Swing was holding
up?
Kinda corny and ancient.
VINTAGE IS THE NEW BLACK, NOAH, Walt hollers.
I can’t see her wearing those hats, I say.
What about, like, a purse or a scarf?
She doesn’t wear scarves.
So, a purse it is.
Yeah, I guess that could work.
I follow Sam over
to the register
where the jewelry is,
and point to a bag
that matches
some of her luggage.
Nice taste, Noah. Look at you, she says.
What?
EXPENSIVE TASTE TOO, Walt yells. If it’s in a display
case, it’s gonna be pricey, yo. He walks over to eye it.
Oh, I know all about these. Fancy people carry them to
show other, less-fancy people that they’re rich . . . LIKE
REALLY RICH. He leans down to peer into the case.
How much does it say it is? Sam asks.
IT’S ONLY TWO HUNDRED NINETY-FIVE
DOLLARS, Walt says, stressing the ONLY part and
laughing.
How much was that purple hat again?
Gift Giving 101
Sam tries to explain to me
that you can tell a lot
about a man
by how he treats
his mother
and that I should consider
buying the bag,
because when it comes
to my mother,
money shouldn’t be an object,
and if the gift will make her happy,
I should get it.
You mean like the bracelet Cruz is buying you—will that
make you happy? Walt asks, sarcastically.
And that’s when
she realizes
he left
without buying it.
YOU GOT PLAYED, SISTER, Walt says, laughing from
over by the bookshelf. When a guy shows you who he is,
believe him, he adds, shaking his head, and looking at
me.
Sam immediately calls Cruz,
and all we hear
is her fussing
as she storms
out of the store.
The Keepall
As I stand there
eyeing the purse,
wishing I wasn’t broke,
a girl
with retro frames
and long, braided black hair
with matching nail polish
walks over,
takes it out the case,
and sets it on the counter.
It’s Louis Vuitton, she says. It’s called a Keepall bag. At
two hundred and ninety-five dollars, it’s a steal.
Striking. Exquisite, Walt says, looking not at the bag, but
at her.
In the 1850s, Louis Vuitton was the packer for the empress
of France. That’s how he got his start. Packing the suitcases
for Napoleon Bonaparte’s wife.
May 5, 1821. Napoleon died from stomach cancer caused
by ulcers, Walt interjects. Got way too stressed out from
being a traitor and whatnot, and BAM!
Random, right? He knows how people died, I say to the
girl, because I know she thinks we’re crazy.
It’s a gift, Walt says.
Impressive. But it wasn’t that Napoleon. It was the nephew,
Napoleon—
Napoleon the third, that’s right, I knew that, Walt
interrupts again, looking a little embarrassed. Kidney
disease, bladder stones, chronic bladder and prostate
infections, arthritis, and obesity, then BAM. Died on
January 9, 1873, which is coincidentally the birth date of
the Jewish poet Hayyim Nahman Bialik, who died from
prostate cancer. Bladders are no joke.
Impressive, the girl says to Walt again. As for the bag, it’s a
beauty. Vintage and classy, she adds.
Like you, Walt says, walking over. I’m Swing.
Divya. I’m sure we can work out a deal. You shopping for
someone special?
Yeah. My mom, I say.
Sweet.
His name is Noah, Walt chimes in, throwing a pea-green,
itchy-looking scarf around his neck. Divya’s a charming
name, ambrosial even. What does it mean?
Divinely brilliant.
Your eyes are brilliant, a d
ivine mix of swirls and color.
Like there are two worlds spinning behind your glasses.
Wait, did I just say that out loud?
You did. And thank you.
He grabs her hand
with a confidence
I’ve never seen
in mixed company
and kisses it.
He. Actually. Kisses. Her. Hand.
And it’s so corny
it’s actually cool.
She smiles.
So, do you want the bag?
He can’t afford it, Walt says.
I can speak for myself, dude. Uh, I can’t afford it.
I can offer a fifty percent discount.
He still can’t afford it. But if you got dishes, he can do your
dishes, or he can dust, Walt says, laughing.
Hey, can’t you loan me the money? I whisper to Walt.
Yeah, Mr. Swing, why don’t you loan your buddy the
money to buy a gift for his mom? It’s the righteous thing
to do, Divya says, looking him straight in the eye and not
blinking once.
I don’t make loans, Divya. Especially to friends.
Remember, Noah?
C’mon, man, I’ll pay you back.
How? With what? You don’t have a job.
My parents are leaving me with some loot before their
trip.
Hmmm. Let me think for a minute. He starts handling
the shirts and old hats and gloves like a miser. Maybe I’ll
loan you the money.
That would be so cool. That would be the coolest thing
you’ve ever done for me. Like, seriously, the coolest.
Shall I wrap it up, then? Divya says.
Not just yet; there’s stipulations. You got a piece of paper I
can borrow? He’ll need to sign something.
Swing Page 5
