Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

RUSS:

  Relax, you liberal pansy. We’re gonna be fine. I’ve got this under control.

  STEVE:

  Seriously? Under control? Dwayne? Tommy?

  TOMMY:

  I’m black. I’m not involved. Don’t talk to me.

  STEVE:

  Dwayne? Hello? Is anyone else nervous here?

  RUSS:

  Hey, turd, I said I’ve got this. Chill the fuck out.

  STEVE:

  Whatever happened to nobody gets hurt, Russ?

  RUSS:

  :)

  STEVE:

  Seriously, Russ??? A smiley face?

  RUSS:

  (o)(o)

  STEVE:

  WTF, Russ??? Is that boobs? Are you psychotic?

  RUSS:

  (v)

  STEVE:

  WTF is that???

  TOMMY:

  That’s a vagina, Steve. You should try one sometime. They’re outstanding. Sorry, the black guy is leaving again.

  RUSS:

  :)

  TOMMY:

  And that’s a smiley face.

  STEVE:

  Goddammit, Tommy! I know what that is! You guys are really goddamn funny! Does a prison sentence sound like a smiley-face situation to you? Grow up, guys!

  TOMMY:

  : (

  RUSS:

  LOL

  STEVE:

  Not cool. I guess I need to learn how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush now or something.

  TOMMY:

  Learn to hide it in your ass, too.

  STEVE:

  GODDAMMIT, TOMMY!

  RUSS:

  ROFLMAO

  TOMMY:

  My bad.

  STEVE:

  Where the hell is Dwayne???

  Dwayne chuckled as he read through the texts before realizing that Steve was probably correct to be nervous about the situation. He decided to hop into the texting mix. Just as he pressed send, a response from Russ popped up.

  RUSS:

  He’s probably doing the indentured servitude thing with one of his Hispanic lawn guys … letting them tug on his Weedwacker … lol.

  DWAYNE:

  Sorry, guys, I was tied up.

  DWAYNE:

  GODDAMMIT, RUSS!

  STEVE:

  So, what’s up, Dwayne? Am I crazy, or do we have good reason to be shitting our pants right now?

  RUSS:

  Fag.

  STEVE:

  Fuck off.

  DWAYNE:

  I think we should talk about this in person, as opposed to leaving a goddamn memoir for the cops to read. Tomorrow at noon. The club.

  12.

  Dwayne had become a touch uncomfortable with the erratic approach Russ had taken to the Coach Dale situation. He was too nonchalant. Everyone knows that the first people the cops interview after a murder are the ones who knew the victim. It wasn’t as if what happened to Dale could be viewed as an accident. He had flown out of a van into traffic. No decent person owns a van. Vans are for murderers and pedophiles. And something about a person’s head popping off makes cops want to try harder. Dwayne knew all of this.

  The next day, on his way to the meeting at the club, he briefly turned down his street to make sure his lawn crew had planted the new batches of flowers that Estelle had asked for. He knew he’d never hear the end of it if “his Mexicans,” as she referred to them, hadn’t busted their asses to appease her.

  When Dwayne pulled up in front of the house, the second thing he noticed was that all of the flowers had been planted to perfection, and his yard looked glorious, unquestionably placing him in contention for the coveted “Yard of the Month” sign. The first thing he noticed, however, troubled him.

  Who the fuck owned the five-year-old burgundy Toyota Avalon parked in his driveway?

  “Jesus Christ,” he said to himself. “Who the fuck are you balling now, Estelle?”

  He glanced over at the clock on his truck’s radio: 11:58 a.m.

  “Goddammit,” he whispered.

  He didn’t have time to do what he had dreamed of for years—bust through his bedroom door and lay a baseball bat across the back of the head of a guy who was balls deep in his wife. He wanted to so badly, but he couldn’t. He had to meet the guys. It was probably best. Being involved in one murder at a time was plenty.

  He threw his truck into “drive” and sped toward the club. Steve’s Prius, Tommy’s Benz, and Russ’s Ferrari were already there. He parked inches away from Russ’s door to piss him off.

  Walking through the club’s door, he heard two waiters arguing over who had to wait on Russ. One of the waiters was the redhead from a few days back, and the other a young Middle Eastern kid. Dwayne could tell the redhead had won the argument. He felt bad for the other kid.

  Dwayne could plainly see that Steve was a bundle of nerves as he took his seat at the table and said his greetings to the guys. Tommy had sunglasses on, in a lame attempt to hide his identity.

  Russ, as usual, was amped up, hammered, and partying balls. “Thanks for joining myself, Woody Allen, and Ray Charles today, Dwayne,” he quipped in his usual smartass tone. “For fuck’s sake, Tommy, you’re the only goddamn black member of the club. You wanna blend in? Bleach your skin and trim a couple of inches off that damn python. If you’re gonna wear glasses, go sit at the goddamn piano.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Steve mumbled. “He never stops.”

  Russ glanced around the table, hoping that he was winning over the nervous crowd. Most people have this thing inside of them that tells them when they’ve fucked up; it’s the same thing that might prompt most people to ask for forgiveness and attempt to make right whatever wrongs have been done. Russ didn’t have that thing. He didn’t have that thing at all.

  The young Middle Eastern waiter approached the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began. “My name is—”

  “Hang on there, Quick Stop,” Russ interrupted. “Would you mind taking a step back and opening your jacket for me?”

  “Here we go,” Tommy muttered under his breath as he looked across the table to address Dwayne. “Am I obviously black? I know I am. How the fuck am I friends with this guy?”

  “Your kids are friends, so you’re forced friends, Tom,” Dwayne replied. “It’s like collateral damage but on a residential level, as opposed to actual damage from warfare.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I was just asking myself the same thing.”

  The waiter stepped back from the table, humiliated, and opened his jacket so that Russ could see.

  “Are you pleased, sir?” the waiter asked, annoyed. “I have no bomb vest. I’m Catholic. My name is Ron.”

  “Ron?” Russ laughed. “Your fucking name is Ron? A goddamn jihadi named Ron? Oh, man. That’s good stuff.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it. Would you like to hear about our specials today? The chef has prepared—”

  “Listen, Ron,” Russ cut in again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I’m gonna need you to show me your shoes.”

  “Do you think I’m a potential shoe bomber, sir?”

  “Potentially. Yes. It crossed my mind. Just keepin’ it real, Ron.”

  Ron stood still and stared down at Russ. He was a short, thin Palestinian kid who looked no older than fifteen. He sounded like he’d grown up riding waves in California. He seemed mellow but ready to crack. He gripped his large round serving tray with both hands as he struggled to determine how to handle Russ.

  Dwayne and the others knew that stepping in would accomplish nothing, so they simply sat and watched.

  “If I allow you to inspect my shoes,” Ron said, “can we then move on to discussing the menu and be done with the racial profiling?”

  “Hey, 9/11, Ron. Never forget,” Russ said righteously.

  Steve buried his face in his hands and softly began to weep. Tommy and Dwayne admired the kid for showing some hint of a backbone.

  “Gentlemen,”
Ron said after a long deliberate pause, “I apologize that you have to hear this, but your friend here can go fuck himself. I quit. This country-club servant bullshit ain’t for me. I pray that your friend here is the only casualty in an act of domestic terror. Peace out.”

  Ron turned and threw his tray like a Frisbee at the redheaded waiter, who dove to avoid taking it in the teeth. He then tossed his apron and bowtie onto the floor and walked right out the door.

  Tommy and Dwayne rose to their feet and applauded as they watched him walk down the fairway of hole #1, and off into the sunset.

  Steve still had his head down. Russ was unfazed, as if nothing had happened at all.

  “So who the fuck is gonna tell me about the specials?” Russ asked.

  “Buffet, dick,” Dwayne responded. “We’re all having the buffet now.”

  Tommy, Steve, and Dwayne walked to the buffet area. Russ begrudgingly joined them. The men filled their plates with shrimp and salads, and returned to their table to accomplish what they’d all met up to do.

  “Okay, guys, here’s the plan,” Russ began while chewing his food. A disgusting combination of ranch dressing and cocktail sauce dripped from his chin.

  “Wait just a goddamn minute, you slimy piece of shit,” Steve piped up to everyone’s amazement. “You don’t get to make the plans anymore! When you make the plans, people get thrown out of vans and die! Cops get involved! Someone else makes the plans this time.”

  Russ was pissed. He jumped up and put his finger right in Steve’s face. “Fuck you, nerd!” he screamed through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to tell me—”

  “Russ!” Dwayne grabbed Russ’s arm. “Jesus! You’re causing a scene! He’s right, okay?! You’re not making the plans anymore. So sit down, shut the fuck up, and eat some more shrimp, okay? I already know what we need to do.”

  Russ saw the intensity in Dwayne’s eyes. He could tell that Tommy and Steve were both aligned with Dwayne as well. He sat back down and crossed his arms across his chest in defeat.

  Dwayne allowed the mood to calm for a moment before he spoke.

  “Here’s what we need to do: Nothing. Nothing at all. We don’t say a word. We don’t talk to anyone ever again about this. We were trying to do something good for our kids, and a force outside of our control took it to a level that we wouldn’t have approved of. We can either live with that and shut the fuck up, or we can go to jail for a long time and miss out on seeing our kids grow up. It’s that simple.”

  The guys ate in silence. They knew Dwayne was right. None of them wanted to do time.

  “What about the cops?” Steve asked. “You know they’re going to talk to us eventually.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that the police will want to talk with at least some of the parents on the team,” Dwayne continued, “but we don’t know anything. We didn’t see anything. We’re as shocked as anyone.”

  “You know they’re gonna talk to me,” Tommy said, peering over his sunglasses. “You know the drill. The black guy gets smoked out first.”

  “Sweet Jesus, Tommy,” Russ jumped in. “Stop telling us you’re black. We know. We’re obviously not racists. We have a black friend. We don’t care.”

  “Not racist?” Tommy replied. “I wonder what Ron would have to say about that. Let’s ask him. Oh, that’s right, he skipped his happy brown ass on down the fairway.”

  “He was a terrorist, Tommy. For fuck’s sake, be an American.”

  “Guys!” Dwayne said with a strain. “Please. Holy shit. Tommy, you’re right. You’ll probably be questioned. Just keep your answers short. Don’t look guilty by offering up all kinds of information that doesn’t matter. Don’t go making shit up for no reason. That goes for all of us. We’re shocked and saddened. It’s a tragedy. That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. We don’t need an elaborate plan. We don’t know anything.”

  The men nodded in agreement. That was the best plan. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Act sad. No need to complicate things.

  “Also,” Dwayne kept going, “if anyone wants to talk about things, let’s not leave a goddamn transcript of the conversation. No more texting about it. No talking over the phone about it. If anyone thinks our situation is being jeopardized, we need a code word to—”

  “Code Red,” Russ interjected enthusiastically, with the certainty of a five-star general laying out battle plans. He was attempting to gain some ground again with the group. He seemed 100 percent certain that his code word was a winner.

  “No, dipshit,” Dwayne replied. “Something inconspicuous, not something that sounds like we’re under attack.”

  “Threat Level Orange,” Steve jumped in.

  Dwayne just looked at him. “Are you guys fucking retarded?”

  “Captain Tiberious Lovebone,” Tommy offered up with a big smile, quite proud of himself. “Or Chocolicious Lovebone.”

  Dwayne was beside himself.

  “It’s a nickname,” Tommy explained.

  Dwayne ran the palm of his hand across his forehead as he attempted to regain his composure.

  “Chocolicious Lovebone?” Dwayne said to Tommy. “Really, Tom? How the fuck do you plan on inconspicuously using ‘Chocolicious Lovebone’ in a sentence?”

  “I use it several times a day, Dwayne,” he responded flatly. “If you don’t like it, fine. Jesus. Don’t be a dick.”

  Dwayne stared at Tommy.

  “Okay,” he said in an annoyed tone. “The code word will be ‘briefcase.’ Just say something about a briefcase, and then we’ll all agree on a time to grab some food or a drink at the club. Does that sound good to you, fucking Chocolate Wonderbone, or whatever the fuck your nickname was?”

  “‘Briefcase’ it is, Dwayne,” Russ curtly replied, still halfway feeling snubbed as he stood up and tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ve gotta take a shit.”

  “Thanks, Russ,” Steve said. “Always a beacon of class. ‘Briefcase’ is fine.”

  “Okay, then,” Dwayne emphasized one more time for solidarity, “no one speaks of this via text, email, or phone call ever again.”

  In the parking lot, as Dwayne pulled himself into his truck, he noticed an envelope in the passenger’s seat. Someone had slipped it through the window he’d left cracked open an inch or so. Dwayne opened the envelope and pulled out the contents—a stack of pictures of Estelle … naked, oiled up, very erotic … taken by someone else … in his own bedroom. He looked in all directions. Russ, Steve, and Tommy had left. He didn’t recognize anyone else around. He had no idea who would’ve left the photos there. He was equal parts pissed and paranoid. Estelle slept around, that he knew, but she’d generally made a half-assed attempt to conceal it. But posing for pictures? Jesus. Not cool.

  Dwayne tossed the envelope into the glove compartment and slammed it shut. He retrieved a half smoked joint from his ashtray, lit it, and smoked it down to his fingers.

  “What the fuck, Estelle?”

  13.

  Dwayne stayed at work late that night. He was trying to keep his mind off what was now an absolute certainty: his wife was a total whore.

  His office complex, a few miles from his house, consisted of three small white stucco buildings and was located on the Trinity River. In addition, there was a rather large warehouse, which housed all of the lawn care equipment for jobs both large and small—mowers, tractors, hedge trimmers, wood chippers, bags of fertilizer, dirt, and mulch, and the trailers and trucks that transported them.

  Dwayne’s office wasn’t in the small buildings. He preferred to be in the warehouse, above the dispatch office, where trucks and equipment were checked in and out. A large glass wall at the front gave him full view of everything that occurred there. This made him feel like he had his finger on the pulse of his business.

  His office wasn’t decorated to entertain or impress, either. A large but inexpensive desk sat in the center of the room, with multitudes of file cabinets scattered throughout. On his desk were several photos of Alex playing baseball an
d one photo of Estelle from their wedding day—before he knew what a raging whore she was. Also on his desk were the credit card bills Estelle had racked up. A mountain of them.

  Dwayne had gotten into the habit of doing something that he wasn’t particularly fond of: He had been paying the monthly minimums on several credit cards, not making a dent in the balances, while using two other credit cards to live off of. Business had been growing steadily but couldn’t keep up with Estelle’s expenses. He had recently renewed the lease on his work property, and the payments had doubled. He’d never imagined having a mortgage payment as high as he had. Alex’s school was one of the most expensive in the state, and he’d almost depleted the fund he’d set up for college just trying to keep him there. The country club’s monthly dues and Estelle’s bar tab weren’t helping, and neither was the payment on her new Mercedes. She used to work. Now her job was spending money. It was all becoming too much for him.

  Every time he spoke to Estelle about getting her spending under control, it fell on deaf ears. She turned things around on him, made it his fault. He was failing to provide for his family. He was a failure. Everyone else could do it. Why couldn’t he?

  Dwayne knew he couldn’t pull off this balancing act for too much longer. It would all come crumbling down. Something had to change … soon.

  He looked around his warehouse. What could he sell? Could he make it with less equipment? No, he couldn’t. He had to find more business. He needed more income. He’d have to get on top of his existing accounts. He had let a few people slide. He couldn’t do that anymore. He knew it might destroy a few people financially—some of them friends—but it was him or them now. It was time to call shit due.

  He looked at a picture of Alex from his days in tee ball. He looked so much younger then. Dwayne didn’t bust his ass for Estelle or her Mercedes. He didn’t do it for himself, or his house in the ritzy part of town. He did it all for Alex. Everything was for him. Dwayne would find a way.

  Dwayne locked up his office and turned off the lights. His work truck was parked next to his black Audi A8L. It was dusty. He hadn’t driven it in days. He loved the Audi. It was a gorgeous vehicle, with every bell and whistle imaginable. It ran like a goddamn racecar. But the only reason he had bought it was to keep Estelle from bitching about the work truck.