Johansen didn’t know how much more he could stand. While there were shrill cuckoo clocks and a wailing siren, Weingrad was reading from the scriptures and moving his lips. Then two large dobermans came racing into the room, snarling and baring their fangs. They stood four feet from Johansen while curling back their lips and growling their menacing growls.
In great fear, Chaplain Johansen jumped up onto his chair. He covered most of his face with his hands. Weingrad was still absorbed in the text. Grizelda came charging in. “Shut up the noiss!! Mein Gott, shut up the noiss!”
Weingrad was aware of nothing save his chapter and verse, but the chaplain was in such terror he feared his sphincters were about to dysfunction. The dobermans seemed to irritate Grizelda more than the clocks or the siren. She doubled her fist and socked the larger of the two dogs on the jaw. The dog tumbled over and began to whimper, but the other one held its position while maintaining its snarl.
Grizelda crossed the room in long, impatient strides. She punched the right buttons, so that everything was suddenly silent. Only Weingrad’s voice was audible. The upright doberman still had its teeth bared. Drenched in his own sweat, Chaplain Johansen wondered if his pants were peed.
Then Weingrad, having finished the passage, looked up from his Bible to see Chaplain Johansen standing on his chair and cowering in utter terror. This, Weingrad presumed, was Johansen’s reaction to the passages of scripture vis-a-vis the End Times. Wilfong pounded his measly fist into his measly palm. “By Jove, Grizelda, would you look at this? This boy has the fear o’ the Lord in him or I’ll eat my hat!”
Grizelda was leaving the room. “Cuckoo!” she exclaimed. “All hass cuckoo!”
When the chaplain returned to the car, he was contending with the full range of stress-associated symptoms. Sweaty palms, dry mouth, increased pulse rate, elevated blood pressure, flushing, and shortness of breath. In response to the curiosity of his colleagues, he could give only the briefest summary of his bizarre encounter. He was much too shaken to review in detail. To calm his nerves he tried some deep breathing and a short pull on Herne’s bottle of Wild Turkey. They were clear to Santa Cruz, though, before he recovered a comfortable level of equilibrium.
Arnold Beeker was afraid they might be running late, so he navigated Herne and the Lincoln into the Bay Area by way of Interstate 280.
As soon as they arrived at Alta Plaza Park, Vano had instant recognition. This place was the dream. Ancient but urban, the huge park formed a mountainous, terraced pyramid. The wind began to blow.
“Arnold, this is it.”
“I can read maps, Vano; Alta Plaza isn’t hard to find.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean this is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is my dream. This is the pyramid. This is the place.”
“Oh my god, Vano, oh my god. Did we need another sign?”
They ascended the stairs, but slowly. There were many flights. Arnold urged them on. “Time is of the essence!” he implored.
On each level, the stronger wind seemed to blow colder. To complicate matters, Rita Lieberman struggled with her Aztec statue, stopping frequently to shift its weight from one shoulder to the other. Herne Hill helped out by carrying it a flight or two, but then he handed it back. “Piss on this,” he said. “Why didn’t you leave the damn thing back in the car?”
“Oh sure, just leave it where anybody might steal it. You got any idea what this statue is worth?”
Vano wondered if he should remind Rita that the statue was most likely manufactured in San Diego or South Korea. Maybe she forgot that Revuelto had two more of them in the closet? But he had no voice with which to speak; he was overwhelmed by the orange sea which lapped the sky and the inner chamber vibrations which were shaking the firmament.
“It’s cold up here,” observed Chaplain Johansen. He buttoned the top button of his cardigan sweater to shield against the wind.
“It’s colder ’n a witch’s tit,” Rita agreed. “This is nuts, why did I even come here?”
Cold wind or no, when they reached the top they gained the breathtaking view of the Bay Area after dark. By looking north, Vano could see beyond the vista of city lights clear to Sausalito. Alan Watts was dead, but was his houseboat still moored there? To the east, across San Francisco Bay, he could see the twinkling galaxy of Oakland. Which of those lights, he wondered, burned atop Oakland Alameda County Stadium?”
It was a confluence of physical and psychic forces which shook him to the depths of his soul. It was exhilarating. Like those few other times, he felt the world wobble on its axis. He stood at the threshold of Ultimate Hooommm, no doubt about it. Would it be a matter of minutes, or merely seconds?
Arnold could see the body language. “Are you scared?” he asked Vano.
“No,” replied Vano. The lights were going dim. “Fear is not a part of hooommm.”
“You don’t have to yell,” replied his friend. For Arnold and the others, there were no roaring chambers, no oceanic gongs timbring from the nether trail of the solar system. No shaking firmament. Nothing at all, in fact, to modify the ordinary patterns of their senses.
“What did you say?” asked Vano in a loud voice, as he assumed the lotus position in the grass.
“I was saying it’s too bad Mary Thorne couldn’t be here.”
“Mary will be fine.”
“Let’s don’t talk about that babe,” said Herne Hill. “I don’t think I could stand it.”
Rita Lieberman asked Arnold, “What did you say about Mary Thorne?”
But Herne didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Do me a favor, Rita; stroke me off whilst I try to visualize her in the altogether. Talk about your harmonic convergence! Talk about your ultimate hoom!”
“Why you low-life sonofabitch! If I had my nail file with me I’d cut your balls off and hand you a pair of earrings. You bastard.” Rita swung her statue savagely at him, but Herne ducked.
Thrown off balance by her near-miss, Rita lost her grip. The base of the statue clipped Vano right above his left ear. He toppled over like a stone. A millisecond of bursting stars and shimmering seas preceded his state of profound unconsciousness.
Ultimate hooommm would have to wait.
Epilogue
The decision by the Oakland A’s to pitch Vano Lucas on opening day the following April, created a crowd control problem of drastic proportions. Team officials bulged Alameda County Stadium at the seams by putting 12,000 standing-room-only tickets on sale two hours before game time. Even with this provision, the multitudes who swarmed the pavement outside engaged in a frenzy of bartering and ticket scalping.
Vano loosened in the bullpen 30 minutes before the game, throwing easily at first, then unleashing his 100 mph plus fastballs into the mitt of Jerome Neal, the bullpen catcher. Each pitch impacted like a cherry bomb explosion. Crack! Neal’s good judgment compelled him to wear full protective gear during this prelude, including nut cup. Especially nut cup.
Spectators by the hundreds crowded as close as possible to view this warm-up action, straining the deployment of stadium ushers. The fans oohed and aahed at Vano’s velocity, and they shouted his name.
Stuck among the crowd, one who hollered was Arnold Beeker. “I have to talk to you!” he kept yelling. Somehow, he succeeded in getting Vano’s attention.
Vano waved, then yelled back, “In a minute!” He had a full sweat. His arm felt loose and live; he was pumped. He activated a cheer which swept through the stadium when he walked from the bullpen to the dugout, his Oakland windbreaker draped over his right shoulder. Ignoring the crowd of autograph seekers near the dugout, he was able to gain access for Arnold by means of the field gate near the dugout.
“I have to talk to you,” said Arnold, repeating himself.
“Come on, we’ll go into the clubhouse. With this sweat, I want to wear an undershirt.”
Arnold tripped on the dugout steps, but managed to recover his balance in time to avoid falling. “Gosh,
” he said, “That’s Ricky Henderson.”
There were only a few people in the clubhouse. Some of the players, finished with batting practice, were changing uniform shirts. Dave Stewart was having an ankle taped.
“It’s been impossible to get in touch with you. Now that you’re a superstar, nobody can talk to you.”
“I know what you mean. Even Sister has to leave messages with the GM’s secretary. Spring training’s over now, though; we can get together.” Vano took his shirt off. He began sorting through a stack of three-quarter sleeve undershirts placed on the table by the equipment manager.
“Weingrad gave Entrada the 25 million,” said Arnold.
“That’s what I heard. The same as my signing bonus; some coincidence, huh?”
“That’s what Chaplain Johansen calls it, but after what we went through, I’m not sure if I believe in coincidence.” But Arnold knew this chit-chat wouldn’t do; his window of opportunity here was brief. He needed to get right to the point.
“Vano, what’s going to become of hoom?”
Using a towel to mop the moisture from his torso, Vano simply gave a shrug.
“And what about particle existence?” persisted Arnold. “What about that? I know you have this wonderful baseball career now and lots of money, but can you just walk away from something as cosmic as that was? Can you just pretend like it never happened?”
Vano shrugged again. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Please.”
“Arnold, that’s the past. You’re talking about the past, but now it’s time for me to move on.”
“It can’t be the past, though. You said yourself there’s no past in hoom because it’s timeless.”
Smiling, Vano patted his earnest friend on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Arnold. Nothing is forever. The second coma brought me back to my senses. You’re talking about the old me.”
“No, I’m not talking about the old you, I’m talking about the real you.”
Vano found the shirt he was seeking, one with extra-absorbent sleeves. He pulled it on over his head. “I don’t follow you.”
“Vano, I have this theory.”
Vano found himself losing patience. He laughed anyway. “You’ll never run out of theories, it’s what you do.”
“But this is different. Really. Before you turn your back on hoom completely, you have to hear me out. Please.” Arnold put his glasses on, as if to sharpen his verbal focus.
“Okay, okay, you can tell me the theory, but there’s only a few minutes. Don’t forget, this is my big day.”
“I know. I’m really sorry. If there was any other way. But here’s the theory: hoom was just you. It was a chance for the real you to come to the surface. It didn’t have anything to do with particle people, or waves, or other dimensions. It didn’t have anything to do with the Federation, or harmonic convergence. It was just a set of conditions which gave you the freedom to be yourself.”
Vano didn’t answer. He was listening to Arnold’s observations while putting on the Oakland A’s uniform shirt with the green and gold insignia. The large number 50.
Arnold got to the core: “Alan Watts was your father, even though he never married your mother. You had two contemplative, mystical parents. That’s your real genetic code. That’s the person you really are deep down inside, but as a superstar jock, that person never had a chance to surface.”
Jerome Neal stuck his head in the doorway to tell Vano, “Three minutes, Kid, and they’re going to start blowing the Star Spangled Banner. Still feel okay?”
“Yeah, I feel great. I’m ready.”
As soon as Neal’s face disappeared, Arnold continued. “You just never got to be you. You may never get to be you again—there just won’t be room for it in the world of big shots and fame and all that stuff.”
Vano looked at him before he answered. Impatience or no, he liked Arnold. Arnold was his friend. He finally said, “Arnold, it’s time for me to pitch.”
“The public will never stand for the real Vano Lucas. The public won’t stand for anything that’s real. Hoom was all about the freedom to be who you are. It wasn’t supernatural at all, but it still had a terrific meaning. You see what I’m saying, don’t you?”
They were walking toward the dugout. Vano threw his arm over his friend’s bony shoulder. “It’s a real interesting theory, Arnold. After the game, maybe I’ll have some time to think about it.”
They stood on the top step of the dugout while Jose Canseco, Ricky Henderson, Mark McGuire, and the other celebrities were introduced by the public address announcer. Each player jogged to the first base line as his name was called, to join the row formed by his teammates. Each time a player was introduced, there was a blast of sound as the huge crowd cheered.
Overwhelmed in this setting, Arnold Beeker was speechless. Vano was staring at a beautiful blond sitting in a box seat at eye level. She was wearing a short pink skirt but no underwear. She sat with her legs parted and a smile on her face. She was looking straight at him. Vano didn’t know who she was, but he smiled back and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
“You’ll forget all about ultimate hoom, won’t you?” Arnold was yelling above the din.
“This is ultimate hoom,” Vano yelled back. The grin on his face spread nearly from ear to ear.
“It’ll be like it never happened, won’t it?”
The public address announcer was beginning Vano’s introduction with the words, “Number 50.” The noise began to swell. Just before he left to join his line of teammates, Vano hollered to Arnold once again, “This is ultimate hoom!”
Then he turned away. He jogged toward first base, rotating his draped right shoulder to keep it warm and loose. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
About the Author
James W. Bennett’s uncompromising, challenging books for teens have earned him recognition as one of the nation’s leading—and most provocative—novelists for young adults. His fiction has been used in curricula at the middle school, high school, and community college levels.
His 1995 novel, The Squared Circle, was named the year’s finest by English Journal and the Voice of Youth Advocates.
Bennett has served as a guest author at Miami Book Fair International, as a featured speaker at the Assembly on Literature for Adolescents of the NCTE, and as a writer in residence (a program he established) for secondary schools in Illinois. He has also been the director for the Blooming Grove Writers Conference.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1996 by James W. Bennett
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8395-2
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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