Shake, pop, fizz, and I slurp the suds.
I’m not ready for tomorrow, and I can’t help but hope that if I’m careless enough, tomorrow won’t come, though even if it does, then maybe she won’t show. I stop surfing channels, having settled on one of those crime dramas that are meant to look like a movie but can’t hide the fact that it was produced on a small budget. I haven’t seen this episode, but the answer to the riddle of whodunit seems obvious. It’s clearly the husband. They’re trying to make it look otherwise, but I’ve seen evil before—real evil—so there’s not much they can do on TV to convince me that the best-of-intentions can be hidden behind bad dialogue, spooky music and poor foreshadowing.
Shake, pop, fizz, and I slurp the suds.
I feel nothing other than boredom, so I start pacing, irritated that the TV has nothing better to offer than a crime saga, three dumb sitcoms and a bad infomercial on best practices for a green lawn. I don’t even own a lawn, which leaves me here wasting away while waiting.
Empty again.
I count them up to find I’ve already blown through three beers. Pulling number four, I pace through the cramped room. I’m not ready for tomorrow any more than I was ready for today. Tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow I’ll break her heart. Again. Almost twenty years worth of poetic justice is about to be served up in a 24-hour window. Now that my memory is drifting back, I know I am where I am, because this is where I’m supposed to be, and I know who I am because of what happened.
Shake, pop, fizz, and I slurp the suds.
Now I’m watching an advertisement for high-speed internet, which happens to be offering the deal of the century, but only if I call now. It’s feeling warm in my room, so I open the door to let some cool air in. Then I crank up the tube and start rockin’ out to one of those commercials featuring a Foreigner song as a backdrop. There are only two other cars parked on the lot, so I can’t imagine there will be too many complaints. I’m all alone, my door wide open, the night looking in.
The alcohol is finally kicking in, and it’s about time. Sure enough, these sitcoms are suddenly hilarious, my comedy barometer spiking. The beer catches up fast, my mood changing like the weather, and soon I’m wondering if it was fear that brought me home instead of courage. I’m certainly no hero, and I’m not here to put the wrong things right. I’m here to cover up what was botched years ago.
11:37.
It’s only been two hours since I decided to go out, and now that the alcohol has blocked my ability to care, I’d just as soon get tomorrow over with. Either that or just leave. I’d skip town if there was a Taxi service, or a bus route, but there isn’t, so I can’t. This place really is at the end of the earth. You don’t just move here. You die here too.
I wince as I chug again, this time too much. Number five is gone, so I start wondering how much attention I’ll attract if I stumble into the same Gas n’ Go to buy another six. Of course the commercials aren’t helping. They’re encouraging me to keep going. In fact, there’s one on right now telling me it’s okay to drink so long as I drink responsibly, and since I don’t have car, I guess I’m being responsible enough.
It’s just after midnight, and for the past twenty minutes, I’ve been reciting what I plan to say to Kristie tomorrow. My words have to be chosen carefully or she’ll freak out, and what I have to say has to be said just right or she’ll miss the point. After five and a half beers, it’s sounding somewhat poetic, which makes sense, because I’m a poetic bastard when I’m drunk. Of course, it’s not quite as poetic when I scamper into the bathroom, put the seat, settle on my knees and puke my guts out. Foul beer runs in streams from my nose, and it feels like my eyes are going to pop straight out of my skull. My stomach lurches, forcing warm beer and stomach acid up my throat, filling the toilet with the red mess I had intentionally swallowed. One more gag, and I think the worst has passed.
Flush.
Standing, the reflection in the mirror reveals a face covered with beer and snot. I didn’t think I’d get this drunk, but then again, I haven’t binged like this in a single sitting since college.
12:13.
The world is spinning. I crank open the tap and drink cool water from my palms before bathing my face and washing off the sticky, smelly mess. I look old. I look tired, and now that my drunken stupor has taken a turn, I’m regretting everything from the moment I decided to come back to Payton to the last few hours of this night. This is not how I envisioned things would go. I expected a red carpet and a trip down memory lane. Maybe I’d even score with an old flame. This was supposed to be therapeutic. Even fun.
I shut out the bathroom light and cross the room where I collapse into bed. Then I reach over and shut out the light hanging over the bed, pull the covers up to my neck and proceed to sweat to death despite the sound of the AC grumbling in the corner.
Eighteen
Yesterday
“Ritchie, what’s the matter with you?” I shout, hands up. But he’s a maniac, like the Tasmanian Devil—that whirling and spinning dog-wolf thing that slobbers all over itself, engorged in rage and consumed with hate. Ritchie charges me, holds up, backs off, charges again and stops just short, his face flushed.
“You shut up!” he shouts. “You shut the fuck up! You started this!”
My hands are still raised, my heart pounding with fear. “Started what? What did I do? I didn’t do anything!”
Ritchie stands there, his shirt soaked with sweat while looking like he’ll charge again. I think he wants to, but he’s conflicted. Something’s holding him back, and finally, he turns away, his fists coming unclenched. He looks winded but calmer. “She was supposed to be mine…”
“You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“She was supposed to be mine…”
“Is that what this is about? You and Joanne?”
“No. I mean, yes, she’s a part of it, but no, that’s not what this is about. It’s about me and you. We were supposed to be neighbors. The backyard barbecues, the wives, kids—maybe a dog. The whole deal.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“But yer leavin’,” he says. “You don’t care about friendship or nothin’ else. You’re just willing to up and go. This Saturday and you’re all the way gone.”
“Ritchie, look at yourself. Is this healthy?” I shake my head. “Things change, man. People change. People grow up, and sometimes they move away. Sometimes—”
“I don’t want things to change! That’s my point! What’s so great about OGA or OGU or wherever the fuck it is you’re goin’?”
“UGA, and the answer is I don’t know. I have no clue what to expect. What I’m doing is giving it a shot. Am I scared? Hell yes, I’m scared. I’m moving away from my home. I’m moving away from my best friend, and that’s killing me. I’m moving away from my girlfriend, the town I grew up in…everything. And I’m doing it because things change. But I’m giving it a shot, because I want something more than to just scrape by for the rest of my life, and if I stayed here working for scraps, then that’s exactly what I’d be doing.”
“But Saturday? Why you gotta go so soon? What’s so special about that job you’re takin’ down there?”
“Nothing. It’s a job. It’ll help with tuition.”
“So, why can’t you work here over the summer?”
“Because there might not be a job waiting for me in the fall.”
“You’re leavin’ Kristie behind.”
“It’s not like it’s permanent. I’m coming back for her.”
“Yeah, you say that now. Then you’ll forget all about her. And me.”
“This isn’t easy for me, Rich. Life is tough. For everyone. It’s full of hard decisions that come with big consequences. High risk, high reward. But you gotta try, or what’s the point?”
He frowns. I can almost see him sorting things out, yet the pieces fail to click.
“Look,” I say, my tone calm. “You’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand. You h
ave the potential to be a Major League ballplayer. You have the potential to be a multi-millionaire. You could play for the Braves, and we’d still be able to hang out. We’ll even paint my name on the fourth row, fourth seat up in the stands. It’ll be just like here, only better. And once that happens, you’ll have girls sending their underwear to you in the mail.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. But you have to take that first step.”
“I can’t.”
“You want Joanne? Then you got to make her want you back.”
He looks up at me, something sinister instead. “Yeah, I’ll make her want me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“She’ll want me.”
“Ritchie, I swear to God you are going down a path I can’t follow.”
“God? You swear to God? What the fuck do you know about God?” Ritchie asks. “You met Him?” His eyes penetrate my soul. “No? Then shut the fuck up.” He paces, his eyes red, but he stops suddenly, closing one eye while thumping his temple with the palm of his hand. “God talks to me,” he says finally. “Tells me what’s what.”
My heart is racing in my chest. “He talks to you?”
“He talks to me.”
“How are the headaches?”
“She was supposed to be my girl,” Ritchie grumbles, ignoring me. “What’s she doing with that guy? No one even knows who he is.”
“It doesn’t matter who he is.”
“But she’s supposed to be mine…”
“She likes him more than you,” I say. “That’s all that matters. Bottom line. End of story.”
He starts pacing the way he sometimes does. “I can’t…”
“Breathe, Rich.”
He looks really, really angry. “What if Kristie did it to you? What if she just up and left you for another guy? Would you be like, ‘oh, well. Maybe next time?’”
I shake my head. “No.”
“And now yer just gonna leave her behind?”
“I’m not leaving her behind. I’m not leaving anyone behind.”
“Everything’s fallin’ apart.”
“Quit whining, and get your goddamn game face on, will ya?”
Ritchie clams up, his eyes narrowing.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He just glares.
“Trust me,” I continue. “You’ll be glad to be rid of me and my dirty mouth.”
“God loves you,” he mutters, ignoring my attempt at humor. “Whether you love Him or not.”
“I have no qualms with God.”
Ritchie is about to say something when he suddenly cringes, his face scrunching into a painful grimace. Something else takes over—something ugly and dark. He bows his head, cocking it to the side, wincing and closing one eye tightly while grinding his teeth. His fingers curl into balled fists at his sides, and he trembles for a few seconds before relaxing. Slightly. When he looks up again, some of the anger has returned. “All I ask is you don’t disrespect Him.”
“You really need to get those headaches checked out. It could be serious.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject. But I am concerned.”
“It goes away.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s gone. You should see a doctor.”
“My parents won’t pay for no doctor visits to treat a stupid headache. Besides, you already said you don’t give a shit, so why should I?”
“You’re right. That’s exactly what I said.”
“Whatever.”
“Do what you want, Rich. I’ll visit you at the loony asylum.” I’ve had enough arguing with him, so I walk away while knowing full well the conversation isn’t over. Arguing with Ritchie is like arguing with a fart. It’s going to happen, and it smells like shit, and sure enough, after a few moments, I hear his shoes shuffling across the pavement as he scrambles after me.
“Just have some reversion,” he says glumly.
“Reverence,” I say softly. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Would you just hold up?”
“I’m not holding up.”
“But Joanne’s gonna—”
“Fuck Joanne!” I shout, whirling. “I’m sick of hearing about her! This conversation is over! It is what it is. She’s not your girlfriend. She doesn’t want you. She doesn’t like you. Get over it!”
Ritchie stands there like the big oaf that he is, hands at his sides, feet spread duck-like, sweat raining down his face. He looks like a child. A scared child.
“I need to go,” I murmur, turning away.
“Everything’s ruined,” I hear him murmur.
I stop and put my hands on hips. For a long moment, I just stand there, my back to him before I finally turn around. I’ve put a good twenty yards between us. “Ritchie,” I say softly. “It’ll all work out. Trust me. Have some faith.”
He’s got something of a superfluous frown on his face. “Have faith?” He waves his arms before letting them slap his sides. “Faith in what? We’re graduating tomorrow, and then yer leavin.’” He waves me off, his shoulders sagging as he turns away. “It’s over.” He shakes his head. “It’s over.”
“Where are you going?” I call.
“Piss off. I need to get ready for the game.”
I curse under my breath. I even use one of Ritchie’s bad words while knowing full well I can’t leave things like this. Groaning, I catch up. To the casual observer watching from their rear-view window, we must look like a pair of idiots, chasing one another up and down the road. I even feel like an idiot.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“If I ain’t, you plannin’ on fuckin’ my ass to make it all better?”
I snort. “Not a chance.”
“Then it don’t matter, does it?”
“It matters.” I pause. “You matter.”
“What’s that? Some kind of quote of the week?”
“It matters, Rich.”
He settles back, his eyes locked me. “You for real?”
“You’ve known me for ten years. What do you think?”
He stares at me, then just like that, a smile starts to win the edges of his mouth. He doesn’t want to smile, but he can’t hide it. He’s a big lug who just wants things to stay like they are. “Stop bein’ my girlfriend,” he says.
“It’s game day,” I say enthusiastically, slugging him playfully in the arm.
Ritchie looks at me with those big eyes and flushed cheeks. “Why’d you do it?” he asks, his tone soft.
“Do what?”
“Dance with Joanne.”
I draw a breath and exhale. “Are you really still bent about that?”
Silence.
“Look,” I say. “You have to believe me when I say that it meant nothing. It was a dance. It was not a romantic dance. She’s my friend, and she was upset. I was just trying to be there for her. Nothing more. I swear it. On blood.”
“Blood?”
“Blood.”
He keeps walking. “You’re my best friend,” he says, clearly trying to find words to articulate what he’s thinking. “But you hurt me pretty bad.”
“You’re acting like I betrayed you,” I say. “I didn’t. I promise. I’m in love with Kristie, and believe me, there’s a big difference between being friends with Joanne and what Kristie and I have.”
He seems to think for a minute. “I can’t do it without you.”
“Do what?”
“You know.”
“Actually, I’m drawing a blank.”
“Forty-four.”
“What about it?”
“Fourth row, fourth seat.”
Fourth row, fourth seat. My place in Ritchie’s little world. I’ve been sitting in lucky #44 for the last four years. It’s the same worn spot on the same old bleachers. From his tunnel-vision perspective, Ritchie is days away from comp
leting his masterpiece. Tonight’s the last regular season game. Then there’s the playoffs. And after that? After that there’s nothing. It’s win it all or lose everything. If he wins, he gets a front page article, a signed game jersey on the wall of the local sports bar and maybe a deal down at the used car lot if he’s willing to hang around and sign a few autographs.
If he loses, he loses everything. Everyone forgets. And then he slips into obscurity. The Pirates are one loss away from ending Ritchie’s career. They’re one loss away from ending his legacy. Everything he is hinges on these last few days as the Ritchie-Hudson-sandglass drains away while leading up to nothing.
“I don’t need Joanne,” Ritchie mumbles.
“You’re godda—” I cut myself off mid-word. “You’re darn right you don’t need her. Her or anyone else. You’re a one-man rockin’ machine.”
“I ain’t,” Ritchie says, shivering. He’s actually shaking, and it’s not because he’s cold. “It takes two.”
“Nothing you do out there has anything to do with me. You’re the one out there on an island throwing mad heat. I’m just a guy in the bleachers.”
He nods, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring off into the distance, hands on hips, the edges of his mouth curved downward. “We do this together,” he says finally. “One last time.”
I hold out my hand. “One last time.”
He locks grip, and it’s my big lug of a friend who thinks in whole numbers and comes up with remainders who looks back.
“Let’s go,” I say. There’s a moment of repose before Ritchie rotates a finger in three concentric circles over his head before pointing in the general direction of the stadium. Now that we seem to have finally settled on a destination, we begin walking again, this time without changing direction or chasing the other down. We’re side-by-side—best buds—and for the moment, the storm has subsided. It’s a hot afternoon. Summer is coming early this year.
Part II
“You’re in my seat,” I say to the man sitting on 44. He’s a big guy—older than me, and he might have lost his hair, but he’s well-proportioned and outweighs me two to one. And there’s not a lot of fat making up the difference.
Payton Hidden Away Page 20
