2007-Eleven

by Frank Cammuso

  “You!”

  He sits across from me, extracts from the vest pocket of his black suit an ebony puck, and flips it disdainfully to center ice. With a flick of his wrist, his right wingman backhands it into my goal. A red light flashes behind my net.

  “I apologize for our ways in condakding you, Mr. Zimz. I truzt dat de ends shall jusdify de minz.”

  “You!”

  Kissinger flicks another puck onto the board and rams it into my net in a fluid motion. Decent shot. Red light. He looks up smugly.

  “You wand do know—why de kidnabbing? Well, dere are mundane matters of zeecurity.

  “Power, Mr. Zimz, creates prison bars, no matter how foolish dey zeem. As the dramatist Schiller once zaid, ‘Against ztupidity, de gods demzelves condend in vain.’ ”

  I feel sick. The door opens behind me. It’s Baldy, sunglasses and all.

  “You mean … play … you?”

  Kissinger sighs condescendingly and stands.

  “Perhaps not, Mr. Zimz. Perhaps not. Let me apologize for dis ill-conceived challenge.” He flips a bill onto the board. “Here’s five hundred dollars for your time. I’m sure it’s more dan adequate combensation. Buy yourself a ‘Misder Hawgey’ crown and wear it at home.”

  He’s at the door when my glands explode. His smile does it. It’s the sneer you get from rich brats in elevators. I fling the puck at him.

  “Play!” I shout.

  Kissinger closes the door and cackles. I feel manipulated. He turns and sits, sips a glass of water, strikes his chest, looks to the ceiling, forms a perfect circle with his mouth, and expels a gaseous lunch.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Sure.”

  “A ztitch in time, Mr. Zimz.”

  “I understand.”

  “Game to den?”

  “Play!”

  Baldy drops the face-off. Kissinger’s center man sweeps the puck to his right defenseman, who retreats out of my wing’s reach. Kissinger stills the board and positions each player strategically. He waits. One minute. Two. My stomach churns. I clutch my goalie. Three minutes. My hands are shaking. Four. My leg pumps wildly. Finally, I look up. He’s staring at me.

  “I think … Mr. Zimz … I shall score … right … NOW!”

  Boom boom. He fires, bouncing the puck off his right wing into the left side of my goal.

  “One,” he says.

  Baldy drops the face-off. Kissinger controls, positions his players, and waits. One minute. Two. My back aches. This is hell. Boom boom.

  “Doo.”

  “Time out!” I stand to stretch. Baldy offers a glass of water, which I refuse. He apparently interprets this as a sign of mistrust and puts the glass to his lips. As Baldy swallows, I notice the gleam of a gun barrel inside his belt. I pee my pants.

  Kissinger takes the face-off. Boom boom.

  “Three.”

  “I CAN COUNT”—and then my adrenal gland speaks—“FAT BOY!”

  Kissinger snorts and bares his teeth at me.

  “I truzt, MIS-DER HAW-GEEE”—he spits out my title caustically—“your offense is sharper dan your tongue.”

  He’s got me. I slobber an apology, then say something ill-timed about the board being more waxed than I prefer. Kissinger groans.

  “As Schumacher zaid, ‘Alibis only zatisfy dose who make dem.’ ”

  Baldy drops the face-off. Kissinger controls. One minute. Two. I’m dizzy. Boom boom.

  “Four,” he says, yawning.

  “IS THAT YOUR ONLY SHOT?” I’m crying now. “SOME OFFENSE! HAVE YOUR FLUNKY DISH OUT TEN STRAIGHT FACE-OFFS! IS THAT HOW YOU WIN? HOME JOB, FOR CHRISSAKE! HOME JOB!”

  He’s rattled. Baldy blushes. The next face-off is mine. I slide the puck to my wing man, set him up, and shoot—but it’s smothered by Kissinger’s defense. My timing is off. Kissinger clears to his wing and rams a shot on my goal. Bam bam.

  But my goalie is there! It’s blind luck. Kissinger tries to conceal a squeal. He misses the jam rebound.

  “KICK SAVE!” I shout. “THE CLEAR!” Kissinger spins his center man wildly. I slam the puck up ice. “SHOT! … SCOOOOOOORE.…”

  His red light flashes. Kissinger slaps the board angrily. I’m on my feet, shaking my fist.

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER, EH? A LITTLE SLOW ON THE BOMBER BUTTON THESE DAYS?”

  He glares at me menacingly.

  “You are MOZT ungind, Mr. Zimz.”

  True. I blubber an apology that neither of them acknowledges. Kissinger takes the face-off and boom boom, bangs in a ricochet. The red light flashes. He lunges across the board.

  “HOW IS DAT, MIS-DER HAW-GEEEE?” Balls of spittle whistle past my face. “DE BOARD DOO WAXED?” He imitates a baby’s whine. “DOES THE BEER SLOW YOUR HAND? DOES BARRY COMMONER DESIGN YOUR DEFENSE?”

  Still glaring at me, he sheds the coat. His Arrow shirt is soaked.

  “Play!”

  The next volley seems endless. Kissinger grunts with each move; I scream at my men. “PUCK LEFT! … LOOKIT HIM SWEAT! … SHOT … STICK-SAVE! … CLEAR … SHOT!” And finally: “GOOOOOOOOAL!

  “TWO!” I shout.

  We play for hours. I score, he scores, me, him, me, me, him, me, him … I SCORE, I SCORE AGAIN! We’re tied at nine.

  Now Kissinger’s smile is cracked. His nose runs. A vein has tightened along his forehead. He plucks at his shirt to cool off. I’ve choked off his ricochet shot. Baldy has downed three pitchers of water. After three blasts at my goal, Kissinger loses the puck and, in a mental lapse, slaps the board. In that moment I clear it to my center man.

  A one-on-one shot.

  There’s nothing he can do but wait.

  I sit there.

  One minute.

  Five minutes.

  Ten.

  Sensing victory, I whistle “Taps.” Kissinger’s neck begins to twitch.

  “DEAR GAWD, NOD THAD!”

  I shoot.

  Goal.

  But it bounces out.

  I’m up and screaming. Kissinger claims the puck must stay in to count. I overturn the table. Kissinger calls me a “dunderslug.” I shout, “Fat boy!” Suddenly, we’re on the floor rolling.

  I feel a vise grip around my ribs, and I’m flung to the couch. Hitting the vinyl, I feel a hardness in my hand. It’s Baldy’s gun. His jaw drops. Kissinger gropes to his knees and goes motionless. We stay like that a while.

  “It’s Shinnick, right?” I wave the gun. “SHINNICK PUT YOU UP TO THIS, RIGHT?”

  Tears flow down Kissinger’s cheeks. For the first time, I see the bags below his eyes, the dried rivers running across his cheeks. It’s a face that has seen death.

  “Pull the drigger,” he whimpers.

  Baldy approaches, smiling in a fatherly way, and slowly removes his glasses. Behind them are gamma rays.

  Faces change, bodies change, but eyes are eyes.

  A flash of shoe leather. Snap, crackle, pop.

  I wake up on a bench in Grand Central Station with five hundred dollars taped to the palm of my hand. My jaw is the size of a grapefruit. I wander until my head clears, then go to Bernie’s to contemplate transmissions from Mars.

  Pork Fiction

  THE STRAW HOUSE

  Look, all I’m saying is thatched roofs, for fuel efficiency, consistently outperform gingerbread. The foliage traps heat in winter and cools you down in summer. In Bimini, you see this stuff everywhere.

  Gimmie a break. This place looks like a dead Chia Pet. Man, this pig is living in a Mother Goosin’ haystack.

  Hey, he’s a pig. Whaddaya expect? Aluminum siding? You ever eat pig?

  Negativo. I don’t do swine.

  C’mon—bacon? You don’t like bacon?

  Imitation bacon bits, sometimes. Way I see it, a wolf lowers himself by eating hog. Me, I’m partial to poultry.

  Hey, did he say there’s three of them? You think we need shotguns?

  C’mon, man. We’re wolves. They’re pigs. What’re they gonna do? Whip us with their curly tails? By
the way, you hear about Harry? Word has it Woodsman chopped off his head over that Red Riding Hood situation. They say he ate her gramma and was eyeballing her in the bedroom, but then this guy runs in, swinging his ax and screaming like Chicken frickin’ Little. Whacked the brother’s head clean off. Now, I ask you, is that right?

  Way I heard it, the dude was camped in gramma’s bed, wearing gramma’s Playtex living girdle. I mean, a wolf ain’t supposed to do that.

  You saying it’s OK to go Jayne Mansfield on a brother simply because he’s between gramma’s sheets, wearing gramma’s unmentionables? That what you’re saying?

  Look, I’m saying I agree that Woodsman overreacted, but Harry should’ve known better. Eat your meal, but don’t play with your food. That’s all.

  Interesting point. OK, it’s time. Let’s get in character.

  Knock knock.

  Little pig, little pig … THE PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS MAN …

  THE BRICK HOUSE

  Piggy, are they coming after us?

  Yeah, Pork Chop.

  Will they get in?

  No.

  Thump.

  What’s that? In the living room. Oh, baby, I’m scared.

  Wait here, Piglet. I’ll be right back.

  Pig peers around the corner and sees Wolf at the fireplace, beating on his smouldering tail. He empties a .45 into Wolf, splitting open his belly and causing blood to pour out onto the thick shag carpet. Wolf staggers and falls, writhing, into a cauldron of boiling water.

  THE TWIG HOUSE

  What happened back there was an act of God, you hear what I’m saying? That whole damn house just exploded, blew apart like cheap Kleenex. It’s a miracle we’re alive.

  Hey, it was luck. That’s all. Like you said, it was just a haystack, and this wood shanty looks just as cheap. Jesus, the pig didn’t even bother to use nails. How do they live like that? Let’s go get him.

  No way. I’m quitting. First, it’s that Red Riding Hood incident, then the straw hut, and now this—we’re cruising Fairy Land with a dead pig in the backseat. I’ve had it. I ain’t huffing these sticks. I’m outtahere.

  C’mon, man, you can’t quit. How you gonna live?

  Way I see it, I’m gonna be a lone wolf. Gonna find me a flock of sheep guarded by some punk with a reputation for calling in false alarms, and I’m just gonna, you know, chill with the lambs.

  You’re full of it. No sheep’s gonna trust you. Look at you. You’re salivating now, just thinking about ‘em. C’mon, man, you’re a big bad wolf. This is your job. You can’t just quit.

  Done deal. Know what’s wrong with this world? There’s too many fairy frickin’ godmothers flying around, granting wishes. Everybody expects to win at Lotto. Nobody wants to take responsibility. Well, that’s what I’m doing.

  You know, I used to recite the Brothers Grimm because I thought the tales offered clear distinctions between good and evil. The older I get, the more I figure those stories just tell about the weak and the strong. Life is a choice between the two. Yeah, I’m a big bad wolf. But I can change. What happened back there was a sign. I’m gonna heed it. From here on, I’m living happily evermothergoosinafter.

  Steinbrenner in Love

  Excerpts from King George III, the newly discovered play

  penned by William Shakespeare.

  February.

  ACT I, SCENE I. In a field. Thunder and lightning.

  RIZZUTO: Single, double; bullpen trouble.

  Owner burn and pitcher bubble.

  Though great’st by far his minions be, They’re not great’st by far, enough, for he.

  What huckl’berries these mortals be!

  YOGI: ’Tis déjà vu—again, I see.

  (Enter George, holding ball.)

  GEORGE: O’er my hearth doth hang the bejeweled broom of series swept.

  Yet the stone floor mocks surly ‘neath a new season’s dirt.

  O, budget: Thou art paid to brutish beasts!

  O Bernie! O Jeter! O Rivera! O’Neill!

  And Good David Wells! The hurler burly! Paw of south!

  Thane of ale and team!

  ALL: Maker of the perfect game!

  GEORGE: Ye hath restored the crown to its rightful throne.

  Alas, one soul whose yonder curveball breaks

  Holds my heart in his split-fingered grip.

  O, Roger Clemens, rocket of northern skies domed.

  No owner hath lesser need for thee, and yet:

  This is the A.L. East, and Roger is the Cy Young.

  RIZZUTO: Holy cow! His heart’s imprison’d!

  YOGI: To be, it is. To b’not, it isn’t.

  ACT II, SCENE III. In the owner’s box. Enter Ghost.

  GEORGE: Angels and ministers of security, defend me!

  What botch of nature doth appear before me?

  GHOST: I am the spirit of ye managers fired.

  I bring news sure to screaming headlines capture.

  To-night, the Jays tender Clemens to the bidder high.

  His breast shall be pin-striped before the cock crows.

  But the ransom shall cut sharper than an agent’s tooth:

  To-night, David Wells shall from thy castle be snatched, And ye shall be the robber.

  GEORGE: Nay! That the heart of my rotation I would sell?

  ‘Tis a trade rumor told by an idiot, signifying nothing.

  True, Clemens in my coat could capture six-and-twenty.

  But to peddle dear David; aye, there’s the rub.

  ‘Tis nobler in the mind to keep him.

  GHOST: Owner, is not your summer of discontent foreseen?

  Your staff shall wilt ‘neath the gravity of innings hurled.

  Put a pennant in thy purse.

  Your Wells has drunk ten cups to-night,

  And not the milk of human kindness.

  Come May, he will be as full of quarrel and offense

  As old Ripken’s back.

  Put a pennant in thy purse.

  Clemens’ hard heaves still bloody his receiver’s leathered palm.

  He painteth corners and maketh music of men’s chins.

  Lash Wells to a lesser pair and etch their travel tickets,

  To-ronto, and To-ronto, and To-ronto.

  Put a pennant in thy purse.

  (Ghost exits.)

  GEORGE: Wine of victory: Must thou always roil from rott’d fruit?

  Torre, quickly! Screw your courage to the trading-place!

  Opening Day.

  ACT V, SCENE VIII. In a dugout.

  RIZZUTO: The unkind’st cut doth poorly sells.

  YOGI: All is not well that endeth Wells.…

  GEORGE: O what a rouge and peasant owner I am!

  Betrayal: Thou art known to me as wife.

  (George points a dagger to his heart.)

  Good-bye, good team. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

  (Cashman enters.)

  CASHMAN: My liege! Saint Louis whispers dangerous truths into my ear.

  McGwire, the Ruthian knight, doth be for sale. (George throws away the dagger.)

  GEORGE: Hark, hark, the Mark!

  Cashman, quickly! Send Tino Martinez to the block.

  Cut the deal!

  CASHMAN: Et, Tino, boss?

  GEORGE: A row of murderers I shall have. O what teams may come!

  RIZZUTO: Unb’lievable! What? A minute, wait!

  L’mmie get this in, ’fore ’tis too late.

  Get well, Ophelia, in Albany.

  YOGI: ’Tis over now, ’cause ov’r it be.

  Nineteen Ninety-four

  It was a cold day in April, and the digital clocks were flashing thirteen. Winston Smith scanned his card at the door, nodded respectfully to the security camera outside No. 4, and began leafing through the letters that spilled from his mailbox. They came from celebrities hoping to save wildlife and from the chief executive officers of global corporations. “Dear W. Smith,” one said. “Have you ever sent a fax from the beach? YOU WILL.”

 
This rattled Winston. He feared beaches, where hot sands often concealed medical wastes. For a frightening moment, Winston wondered if he really wanted the freedom to watch five hundred TV channels or access the electronic-data superhighway from a laptop computer. To calm himself, Winston swallowed a Prozac, grabbed his precious remote box, and flicked on the telescreen. A woman with the piercing, all-knowing eyes of a TV reporter smiled at him. He knew her as Murphy.

  “Trying to figure out which telephone company gives you the best deal?” Murphy said. “Only Sprint offers you The Most. It’s like a billionmegabyte brain in your phone. It figures out who you call the most, then gives you a twenty percent discount on long-distance rates to that number. It’s that simple.”

  Winston broke into a cold sweat. He’d heard of rebel phone companies but until now had never dreamed of joining one. Murphy vanished from the screen, replaced by a show devoted to the capture of criminals. But Winston still thought about Murphy.

  “I will,” he said finally, dialing the number she had projected. “I WILL!”

  That night, Winston dreamed of making love to Murphy and saving 20 percent on long-distance rates.

  He awoke next morning to the telescreen, where a large, bald man stood before a map of Oceana. “Here’s what’s happening in your world as we speak,” the man said. Winston waited for instructions. The phone rang. A frantic voice shouted, “We want you back, W. Smith! WE WANT YOU BACK!”

  This rattled Winston. He thought about nothing else while riding the train to the Ministry of Truth, where he worked in the Department of Conventional Wisdom. That morning, a programmer named O’Brien pulled Winston into a back room.

  “We heard through e-mail that you’re switching,” O’Brien whispered. “Before you do, think about it. Think about what’s important.

  “I’m making a list, Smith,” O’Brien continued. “It’s my ‘Friends and Family Circle’ list. You could be on it. But in return, we need a list from you. We need to know whom we can count on. Join MCI, and you’ll cut long-distance bills by twenty percent. Of course, certain restrictions apply. What do you say, comrade? Will you join?”