NY Writers Institute "One Last Ride" Short Story
Twin Bill Baseball "The Bouton Lesson"
The First 2 Chapters of Beyond Centerfield:
©2016
Chapter One
Top of the First
I woke up drunk again. The carousel of my dizziness seemed eerily different this time. Both my hands really fucking hurt. The weird squeaking of the bed was a little unsettling. Jägermeister, never again. People always say that when in this situation. Hung over, still drunk. Never again, until the next time.
Where am I? This isn’t even my bedroom.
What’s with these clothes?
It smells like mothballs in here.
I stumbled to the mirror, brushed the hair away from my eyes and had a surrealistic awakening. At first, I thought it was an absurd picture of Joseph Stalin with the thick black hair and big handlebar mustache, but when I twitched, I realized that the guy in the mirror was me. I had very calm brown eyes, a little bloodshot, but they made me feel comfortable. I had a straight, symmetric, thin nose that was obviously protected during fisticuffs. I noted an oblong face with an angular chin. My eyebrows were thick but not bushy.
I checked my cell phone and it read no service. It was fully charged but alas, no bars. I took a selfie for posterity. I tried to recall the course of events from the previous night. I sort of remember taking a cab home after losing a video game and buying drinks, way too many drinks.
What was that clippity-clop from outside? I peeled away the heavy red velvet curtains that appeared as if someone had stolen them from a Nevada brothel. A horse and carriage, what were they doing in the Bronx? I don’t live anywhere near Central Park.
The gray buildings were all so small. The streets were paved in cobblestone and festooned with black iron gaslights. The silence was broken by three distinct loud bangs on the door.
“Smokey, you alive?” came a voice in an Irish accent. It was very confusing, since my name is Joe.
“Smokey ain’t here,” I said with a similar brogue, much to my surprise, being an Italian kid from New York.
“Well, Smokey Joe Ryder, get your bum to the Polo Grounds. We’re late,” was the mysterious retort.
I smacked myself and not only did my face hurt but it reminded me of the excruciating pain in my hand. Apparently I was either dreaming with pain or I was in New York City in the Victorian era. Oh and I was wanted at the Polo Grounds baseball park post haste.
A sweet lady’s voice followed a timid knock.
“Mr. Ryder, your breakfast is here. I will leave it at your door.”
I opened the door and saw a tray with a plate of three fried eggs, a newspaper and a bottle of scotch, the well-known breakfast of champions. I dumped the eggs down as fast as I could. The thought of the scotch made me nauseous. The newspaper identified the date as August 22, 1885. I didn’t bother to wash and ran downstairs.
“Smokey, good. We can share a carriage to the ballpark. Get in.” That same Irish voice; my buddy acted as if we had known each other for years.
“What time is it? Better yet what day is it?” I asked raising my newspaper to shade the sun.
“Yeah, you tied one on,” my friend said. “It’s Saturday, and we’re on the road and playing the Giants.”
“We’re playing the Giants?” I hoped they weren’t really giants.
“Yeah, Joe. You’re starting at shortstop. How’s your hands? I never saw a guy get hit by pitches twice in the same game, once in each hand.”
Well, that at least explained all the pain and the bruises on my fingers.
“Oh, by the way, my name is Snuffy. Do you remember? I’m your second baseman, you b’hoy.” I recognized it as a backhanded term of endearment.
The conversation with Snuffy also confirmed the date on the newspaper. But was I dreaming?
The Hansom cab pulled up to the ballpark and my head was still spinning. I was in good company as half the players entering the clubhouse were already drunk or had snuck in bottles of whiskey. Almost everyone was drinking before the game. Snuffy offered me a swig and I just shook my head. It was only 11a.m.
The manager of our team, as I quickly learned, was also the owner. His nickname was Bags, short for Moneybags. He had won fifty percent of the team in a poker game last winter. Moneybags was about fifty years old. Stubble and cigar were my first impressions. He had a potbelly and stains on the front of his uniform. A couple of moths had a picnic on his hat. During his pregame speech, he pointed at me. I noticed he had the calloused hands of a farmer. Playing both owner and manager was a cost-saving tactic but an unwise baseball decision. Bags didn’t know the game. Better for us, the players, for as long as your production was minimal and you talked a good game, you would play. I had been on teams like this before in college and in the pros for a while. Friendship amongst the players was important. If someone else made a big deal out of what you did, the manager thought you were a valuable part of the team. Camaraderie was vital.
Apparently I was a popular guy. I walked through the clubhouse to a cascade of conversation.
“Three for 5 again today, slugger?” I heard from the back room.
“I’ll try for 5 for 5 every time,” I replied.
I found my locker. “RYDER” was printed on the door. I changed into the uniform and took stock of my equipment. I had a bit of a stocky “dadbod,” at 5’11” and weighed 220—a bit heavy for my liking—but a few chair exercises would solve that. I drank three huge glasses of water before heading outside.
“You’re crazy Joe, you’re gonna get sick,” Bags warned, not being familiar with the need for hydration.
It was overcast on the field at the Polo Grounds in northeastern Manhattan. Ironically, I knew from the life I had left behind in 2015 that a polo match would never be played here. The horse-drawn carriages in the outfield had left huge shit piles all over the grass; I could easily see why the infield was preferred.
I had not played a real ballgame in such a long time. I thrived on competition, which gave me the tender relief of briefly taking my mind off this strange transformation.
Looking over Bags’ shoulder, I saw my new name, Smokey Joe Ryder, slotted to bat third in the line-up, the spot reserved for the best all-round hitter. I always was a good batsman and used the field to my advantage. Unlike in other games I’d played, the pitchers went the distance. This gave me a two-fold advantage. The first was that fatigue set in on the starter’s arm, slowing him down in the later innings. The second advantage was that I could study the guy. By the time the seventh inning rolled around, I’d know all of his tricks no deceptions left. This was pleasantly different from the modern game where each specific play may call for personnel changes.
The rules state you can ask the umpire to direct the pitcher to deliver either a high or low ball. This determined the strike zone to be either above or below the waist. Pitchers were limited to throw the ball up to shoulder height. So if you could sling the ball sidearm, you had a big advantage. There were no foul poles. Adjusting to the caveman-like bats we were using wasn’t easy. It meant choking up the handle to give me optimum bat control. The down time during first three innings was spent whittling the bat down to be a little more like the thin-handled modern bat to which I was accustomed. For this year only, bats were allowed one flat side. The gloves were terrible. They’re like the ones we used to make snowballs, not much better. Some catchers were beginning to wear chest protectors. Others took it as an insult to their manhood. I resolved that if I’m going to be stuck here in 1885, a few big changes would have to be made.
The Giants turned out to be average-sized gents, very good hitters, and not a weak spot in their lineup. Even the pitcher knocked in two runs with a base hit in the fifth inning. We were losing by four runs toward the end of the game but we were mounting a comeback. In the top of the ninth, we scored a couple of runs and had first and second with only one out. The game ended too quickly when our left fielder, Jim Candy, lined out into a double play. We came close but lost the game 5-3. At least we were competitive against the second best team in the league. My production was decent going 2 for 3 with a walk. The highlight for me was when Snuffy and I turned a real nice double play. It was ballet on dirt. All in all, our inebriated personnel had turned in a respectable performance.
During a timeout, I asked Snuffy about the mysterious lady high above in the press box.
Snuff looked at me cryptically “You’re crazy. What’s the matter with you? That’s Fidi, the newsgirl. You b’hoy.”
I questioned Snuffy here and there selectively for the rest of the game trying not to give myself away. “How do you like the flat bats?”
“Dis’ ain’t cricket.” Snuffy snapped. “They play that in Sweden or someplace.”
I showered and dressed quickly. Now it was time for me to enjoy the evening. With games played during banker’s hours—done by 5pm—I had plenty of evening left to get into trouble.
Exiting the clubhouse, I was approached by the newswoman I had noticed earlier. She was a thin, silk-dressed woman. She walked over to me like she owned the ballpark. The reporter, Hope Elizabeth Fidi,had brown hair tucked away in an elaborate feathered hat. She had a look that would hold your attention.
“Nice turn, Smokey” she said, referring to the double play.
“Thanks, Miss Fidi.”
“What? You’re not gonna call me a know-nothing skirt?” She scowled, hands akimbo.
“If I ever did, I must have been angry at something else because you’ve got an eye for baseball.” I tipped my straw hat.
“Ever? Well, I have more than an eye for that,” she snapped.
“Do you always flirt or am I just lucky?”
“I am not flirting and you have no chance of getting lucky.” She shook her finger.
“That’s a shame. We’d be such good dance partners.” I held my left hand aloft, placed my right on my chest, and mimicked a waltz-step.
“Like I said, no such luck. No chance for dance, shortstop,” she insisted with a smile. She slapped her hands back at her side.
“Oh, you must like pitchers.”
“I’m not foolish enough to date anybaseball player.”
“What if I told you I was studying at Villanova in the off-season? Would that make a difference?
The woman waved her hand dismissively. “All you ball players are little boys looking for a mommy.”
“OK, Ms. Freud,” I teased.
“Ms.? What did you call me and who the devil lay is Freud?’ She looked as if she had seen a ghost.
Oops, I had forgotten when I was for a second.
“Come to dinner with me. I’ll tell you all about him. He’s got a lot to say about men with Mommy complexes.”
“Wow, dinner with a reporter. You are in a daring mood today, Mr. Ryder.”
Call me a risk-taker. I was flaunting with the taboo about ballplayers speaking to the press. Bags had reminded us of this protocol in his speech after the game. This was a risk I was willing to take just to gaze into those bewitching, amethyst eyes.
“What’s the big deal? We’ll go someplace where nobody knows us.”
Hope seemed to give the idea a moment’s reflection. It was obvious she was accustomed to men falling for her.
“Up in the Bronx,” she continued. “It’s another world up there and no one will know. But I haven’t saidyesyet.”
She gave me a little tingle. I smiled. I liked her already.
***
The elevated train up to 180thstreet was a short ride, and we found ourselves seated in a dim corner of Mario’s Italian Restaurant by 6 p.m. The place was romantically low lit and outfitted with beautiful woodwork. It was unbelievable how many tables, candles and checkered cloths they managed to squeeze into the quaint space. A little old man played the accordion in the corner while smoking a Denoble cigar. The signature aromas of oregano, basil and fresh baked bread wafted from the kitchen, and reminded me of my Grandpa’s cooking.
Hope excused herself to the powder room and I ordered a bottle of homemade wine. I also asked the barrel-chested, mustachioed waiter about the specials. He dusted his hands on his apron and began a recitation of the chef’s best dishes.
When Hope returned, I suggested two entrees.
“That sounds wonderful.” Hope was impressed and agreed with my recommendation. “Do you mind if we share?”
“Not at all.”
As the ostrich-plumed chapeau came off, revealing that silky long auburn hair, the reporter’s hat went on. “So what are the Quakers’ plans for next year, Joe? May I call you that?”
“Of course, there are some trades with Chicago in the loop and a few kids Bags found in Kentucky that can really hit.” I was interested in her and trying hard to impress. Then I began screening her. “What are your plans, Hope?”
“Since I am the first female sports reporter to follow a baseball team around the country, I plan to complete the year with the team.”
I looked confused. I’m such a crappy bullshit artist.
“As if you didn’t know.” She looked puzzled. “Are you having amnesia?”
“No, I just love to hear you speak.” I recovered quickly. “Anything you don’t like about your job?”
“The train travel has its good and bad points, but it’s tolerable. It’s part of the whole experience.”
“It’s tough on everyone. So Hope, how did you get this job?”
“Maybe later, Joe, I know it must have angered a bunch of gentlemen.”
What else did I need to know?
Does she screw?
Does she have kids?
That thought had never crossed my mind about a woman before. But she was special. Removing that fancy hat was like the curtain rising on a Broadway play. That long hair flowed down in an avalanche that seemed to never end. She had huge Liz Taylor eyes that put me in a fucking trance. All I could do was stare and nod. Nah, it wasn’t just her looks, she was clever, kind and considerate. She could hang with us guys or have tea with the Queen. But maybe I was making all this shit up because of those eyes.
“I can’t believe you are so civil.” She lifted her wineglass and took a sip.
“I am a changed man.” If she only knew how much.
“Do you know what a fiend you were to me yesterday?” Hope pointed a breadstick at me.
“I know. But honestly I really have changed and I am still trying to figure some things out. I’m growing up.” I bit the tip of her pointed breadstick.
Dinner arrived and we talked and laughed and told stories about our families and how we both loved baseball. I explained to her all about Freud and Oedipus. She listened intently with the palm of her hand cupping her chin.
“You must have been some tomboy.” I laughed.
“None of the boys could hold a candle to me. They were Thomasina girls compared to me,” she said confidently and patted her chest.
We finished dessert and before we went out in the breeze, she wound and fixed her hair with a pin and secured her hat with a second pin. Hope insisted upon splitting the dinner check.
“C’mon Hope, leave me some dignity.” I waited for her answer.
“That’s just something you will have to deal with, Joe.” She was cool.
The train ride back to the hotel was magical. She spoke about her ambitions. She enlightened me that her Dad owned the Eagle Chronicle, the paper for which she wrote. She was so proud that she had almost made it through her first year as a sports reporter. I was so glad she didn’t ask me about my aspirations.We were both staying at the same hotel. She wished me good night and I gently kissed her cheek and held her cute little hand. She smiled, entered her room and closed the door.
The longest exhale of my life started me thinking.In the hall, alone and sober, I began to put together the things that had happened the night before and what may have landed me in this predicament. As I recall, I had been hanging at the neighborhood bar playing this video game when a weird, hipster doofus came in. The very tall, bespectacled nerd reminded me of a big piece of broccoli. He had a green headband and a huge ‘fro that gave me a vegetable kind of feel. The green giant also had a huge black suitcase, which was actually a computer. He unraveled the cord and plugged in what looked like a homemade charger. The hinged cover on the case was a colossal LCD monitor. The outside of the dark case was covered in “Super String Theory” bumper stickers, promoting not physics, but a really cool progressive rock band from Springfield, Missouri. I was familiar with them from my bar-hopping days. At least Broccoli Man had good taste in music.
“What you got there?”
“This is Home Run Haze. You wanna play?” He fired up the machine.
“Sure, I’ll step up to the plate.” I slipped off the barstool as he handed me the controller.
“What stakes do you want to play for, Joe?” He finished setting up.
My drunken response was “All in.”
“Are you sure?” Broccoli Man asked, picking at his ‘fro.
Spinning from the booze, I blubbered, “Yeah.”
The game started and it was fun choosing an opponent from any period in baseball history. Of course I wanted to hit against all-time greats like Christy Mathewson and Chief Bender. It felt just like being at the ballpark: the ruffling flags from the cool breeze, that refreshing airflow tickling on my face. The bright green of the grass, the sound of the crowd and smells of beer and popcorn were all so vivid.
I never imagined that losing meant I’d be absorbed somehow into that game. It felt like a dream sequence and it reminded me of the ‘shrooms I had taken on my birthday. The last thing I vaguely recall was the Broccoli Man helping me into an old Marathon taxicab. I distinctly remember him saying, “Enjoy the ride, my friend.”
So far I really am.
Chapter Two
Bottom of the first
On the morning after dinner with Hope, I awoke early. The sun was pumping through my hotel window like a flashlight in a dark tunnel. It felt good to me in that cold cubicle.
“It’s gonna be weird playing Sunday,” Bags had said. “I’m used to the day off.”
In our hometown in Pennsylvania, Blue Laws barred games on the Sabbath. But this was New York and I needed to get a little lost and have some fun playing baseball. I might be stuck in the 1880’s, but baseball was a diversion from this confusion.
The New York Giants was not always that team’s name. Originally the New York Gothams, the Giants’ name evolved after the purchase of a few really tall ballplayers from the defunct Troy Haymakers. Fans asked “Where did you get all those giants?” and the name stuck.
Among the players on my team, almost everyone had Bacca-Pipes, those moustaches with the curly waxed tips that looped around to form a ring. The players all chewed tobacco and spit whenever and wherever they wished.
That Sunday our starting pitcher was an egotistical asshole named Tremendous Jones. His muscular, 6’2” frame accented by exceptionally long arms, enabled him to whip the ball side-arm like Hall of Famer Walter Johnson. He was very difficult to hit. Mr. Jones claimed not to need any of us because he could strike everyone out. What a tremendous dickhead! He even gave himself the nickname Tremendous.
During the third inning, I hit a fly ball to left. The fielder camped under the ball preparing for the catch when a seagull collided with the projected sphere. The collision allowed me to reach second with a double, which drove in two runs and gave us a 4-0 lead. As I stood on second base, the umpire came alongside.
“It was a fowl ball,” he said as he waved his arms like a bird. I snickered to make him feel good.
Jones pitched very well for us. In the bottom of the fifth, this genius told us all to sit down at our positions.
“No worries, mates, nine pitches and three strikeouts.” Jones motioned for us to hunker down.
Some players actually did sit down. I couldn’t believe it. The Giants took advantage, hitting the ball where the fielders relaxed.
In my second game with the team, due to Jones’ antics, I made two errors on purpose. Snuffy Green picked up on my plan and made an error allowing two unearned runs to score. Snuffy was dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. Tremendous got the message and realized that he did need us. He actually complemented Snuffy on a great play in short right field, diving for a pop-up with the bases full of Giants. That saved the game for us and we beat the second place team 4-3.
Snuffy was my second baseman. He was about 34 and had played for The Quakers for five years. He had gotten his nickname due to his constant sniffles from his cocaine addiction.
Cocaine was not illegal and readily available, as was heroin. Scores of players became addicts. Hope had mentioned this at dinner, and the drug problem ended many careers and quite a few lives. She told me the story of Tom Barlow. He was a catcher that pioneered the bunt. Barlow got hurt playing during a game the 1870s. He was administered morphine by a doctor and that started his addicted downward spiral. He only played a few more games, and eventually disappeared in the early 1880s.
Snuffy Green was scrappy, and would “blouse up” or puff up his uniform top, to increase his chances of being hit by a pitched ball. He led the league in getting on base in that fashion.Green was about five-foot-five with small hands, twinkling blue eyes and a penchant for practical jokes. He was the master of the hot foot. He could set the back your spikes on fire using wadded up toilet paper. Many times, players wouldn’t notice it until the flame had burned a hole in their uniform pants. Green was very good defensively at second, and made it look easy. I was sure he’d get even better with a few suggestions.
Our catcher was a huge, full-bearded man with long black hair. He stood 6’8” and was 350 pounds of solid muscle. He was nicknamed Mountain; no one knew his real name and no one was going to ask. He had shoulder-length curly locks and looked more like a defensive end than a catcher. If Jesus Christ had played football, he would have resembled Mountain. Any close play at the plate had the opposition refusing to score. I saw Mountain knock a runner out in each of games I played. When I suggested shin guards, he just laughed at me. He did wear a catcher’s mask the size of a medium watermelon. His cap size was 14. He could hold 8 baseballs in one hand. I improved his catcher’s mitt by putting a break in the glove to promote flexibility. This turned his old “pancake style” mitt into a modern glove. It made it much easier for him to snare a ball.
“Thanks,” Mountain grumbled in his soft Southern drawl. He was a man of few words.
The third baseman was a psychiatrist’s dream. Fire Engine Miller was easily distracted by any fire engine of the day. He was known to leave a game if he heard the clanging of a fire bell; he’d chase said wagon to the blaze and demand to help. Shiny objects and puppies also distracted Miller. It was commonplace for opposing fans to bring mirrors to shine and take Fire Engine’s mind off the game. If Fire saw a lady with a lap dog in the crowd, Bags would have to call him to get up to bat. But he could play, and he was the best expectorator I have ever seen. He could decorate the back of your uniform pants with brown tobacco juice, the consequence of which made it look as if you had had an accident. He never ever missed a spittoon. Fire was about 5’6” with the tiniest feet I ever saw on an adult. He wore a size 5 spike. But his small body packed a lot of power. He had broad shoulders and very muscular arms from working the Pennsylvania coal mines as a child. Fire Engine exhibited all the classic symptoms of someone with fetal alcohol syndrome.
The clean-shaven Jim Candy was our left fielder. He was small in stature but very athletic. He made the best of his 5’4” frame. He could do handstands and cartwheels like a gymnast. Candy had a great arm, leading the league in outfield assists. I had a feeling that Bags would know how to use Jim’s golden arm late in the game. Candy and I were the only ones on the team to prefer chewing gum over the chaw of tobacco. Candy always hung around Mountain as if he were his little brother.
The center fielder was Bear Black. Although it was spelled “bear,” it really was “bare” as he loved parading naked, playing his alto saxophone. He had been caught using the woodwind instrument in rather creative ways. If you heard the E-flattone in the clubhouse, you knew Bear was au natural. On days he was not playing centerfield, he would be scolded by Bags for his dugout constitutional. He played jazz, the latest craze.
***
Monday was a travel day and that meant a long smelly train ride with intoxicated, cigar-smoking, card-playing ballplayers. I don’t know how Hope put up with it. By travelling with the team, she suffered a constant barrage of innuendo and an array of boyish pranks. These seemed to piss me off more than her. At least we had won yesterday. There would be no inebriated ballplayers calling one another out, blaming the previous loss on a mental or physical error. The whole scene was far more laid back than the steroid-riddled, amphetamine-driven twenty first century teams I was familiar with.
We were heading for Providence, Rhode Island. I enjoyed the scenery during the leisurely travel. The train chugged along parallel to Long Island Sound, a beautiful coastline that was so lush and green, and sprinkled with white schooners and old gray fishing dinghies.
As we past the seaport of New London, Connecticut, I recalled fishing for blackfish with my Uncle John. The memory was so pleasant that I wanted the ride to continue forever, much to my surprise. Everyone seemed to slow their pace down a little.
The ride also gave me time to get to know Hope a little better. I didn’t care about the press taboo anymore. We got past all the usual banter and got into our future plans. This was quite one-sided as she dreamed of impressing Joseph Pulitzer, explaining that she had worked for his newspaper in the past. “I also want to travel to Europe. I am seriously thinking of doing a book about medieval castles.” She was brimming with enthusiasm.
What was I to tell her? I just wanted to get to the next level of some video game and was interested in getting stoned and playing ball. If I told her that story, she would get up and walk out, never to speak to me again. I told her I wanted to finish college.
“Yes, you mentioned Villanova.” I had her undivided attention.
“Baseball was just a way for me to make money and have the time during the off-season to complete my degree.” I tried staring at her forehead, so as not to be distracted by those peepers.
“What are you studying? “
I knew I had better not say medieval history so I decided upon medicine. Back in my previous life in the 2000s, I did have a degree in biology and taught it in high school, so any questions would be fieldable.
“Doctor, okay. What area?” She poked….
“Either Anesthesiology or Family Practice.”
She wrinkled her nose as if I were speaking Latin. “I didn’t know there was such a field as Anesthesiology.”
“It’s new, cutting edge. Anesthesiologists specialize in relieving pain and increasing safety during surgery. It is one of the outcomes of the travesties of the Civil War.” I was proud of my quick response.
Hope grinned. “You are far more complex than I thought. I assumed you just wanted to sleep with women after getting drunk in town after town.”
“As a young ballplayer, that was all right, but that gets old really quick. I am looking for more. We all must evolve sometime.”
Jesus, did I really mean this or was I just saying anything to get into those bloomers? When would I be able to be truthful about my 19thcentury predicament? Certainly she would think me crazy if I told her the truth.Maybe I was really starting to care about her?
Only time would tell how honest we could be with each other.
The train pulled into the Providence Union Station. It seems every town had a Union Station. Hope warned me about the hotel where the team was staying.
“It is rather unsanitary. Make sure you take your towels from the middle of the pile from the cabinet in the hallway. You would be foolish to eat at that hotel.” She pecked my cheek upon palming the other. I felt that little tingle.
The team checked into the Excelsior Hotel. My first impression was that the conditions on the train had been more unsullied. Cats were everywhere. I had to scoot one off my bed when I entered my room. Hope had done this circuit before and knew about the conditions at our hotel; she’d opted to stay uptown at the Monarch Arms. We agreed to meet there for dinner. On the way out, I asked at the front desk if room service could give my room a once-over and get rid of the cat.
Hope and I met in the lobby of The Monarch. As I walked in, I noticed a big bald guy seated at the bar. Perched on that stool, he was in the right position to see everything. He looked familiar. Hadn’t I seen this guy in New York? He was unmistakable. I never mentioned anything to Hope about the beast; I didn’t want to worry her for no reason. It appeared as if he were following us around. But maybe I was just imagining and being paranoid.
Hope had changed outfits for dinner and looked provocative. Her hair was up with no hat. She looked like a parfait and I really wanted dessert. The dress was a sultry pink with white lace trim. I couldn’t stop fantasizing about letting her mahogany hair down and getting lost in it.
I handed her a gift that I picked up on my way to the hotel: the newest Waterman fountain pen.
“I was just thinking of buying one of these,” she chirped. “I prefer black to blue, you know. You must be clairvoyant. Thank you, Joe, for this useful gift. Now I can think of you as I write.”
“You’re welcome.” I tried to kiss her but she stopped me.
“Not in public, but maybe later. I need a glass of wine.”
We sat at our pristine table perfectly set with meticulous linen, fine china and expensive crystal stemware.
“Bring us a bottle of the 1880 California Merlot,” I told the waiter. We toasted and sipped.
“I pray you are not trying to get me full rats, Mr. Ryder, in order to take advantage of the situation.” She pulled her chair closer to the table.
“Hope, if we ever have the chance to take advantage of one another, I want you to be completely sober so you can experience the full effect.” I played with my mustache.
“You’re quite confident, sir. I like that. I never noticed but you do have the beat-up hands of a ballplayer.” She patted my mashed-up paw and downed her glass of wine. I refilled her.
“I don’t know if you can make my team, Joe,” she laughed, and sipped again on the semi-sweet red vino. “But that dimple in the middle of your chin kind of makes you look like a model.”
Hope munched on her chicken while I sampled my sea bass.
“I haven’t failed yet to make any team that I really wanted to play for,” I answered, smiling.
“I trust you have never been pinch-hit for by another gent.” She sipped a little more, grinning.
“No, I hit both lefties and righties equally well. I know how to handle my bat.”
“And I know how to handle your bat, too. Maybe we will be dance partners someday, if you behave.”
Oh yes, dear, I will behave and someday you will be so fucking glad I did.
We finished dinner and I walked Hope to the deserted hall by the elevator. We paused about halfway down the hall.
She kissed me goodnight. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the game.” She turned, walked three steps, looked back at me, and motioned with her finger for me to come closer. “I just have to kiss you once more, just to give you something to think about.”
I laid my best upon her without getting too invasive.
“You better dream of me tonight, Mister bat-man,” she laughed.
Yeah, right, I think she thinks she’s got me.
I loved watching her wiggle away.
Exiting through the lobby, I saw Snuffy in the Monarch bar. He avoided the bar at the Excelsior where Bags imbibed. I stopped in to bullshit and have a few. I ordered shots for both of us.
“I saw you with the Fidi girl, Smokey. You like playing with fire.”
“Yeah, Snuffy, the hotter the better.” I called cheers.
“Just be careful not to get burned. That flame can cause damage.” He put his arm around me.
“Gee thanks, Dad, I’ll remember this moment when I’m in the burn ward of the hospital.” Cheers again.
“To be honest, it would be worth ALL that pain to feel the heat just once.” He winked and tapped me on the back.
“I can’t build myself up for a disappointment. Hey, did you notice a huge bald guy sitting over there?” I pointed to the vacated stool.
“No, it’s just been me here for about an hour. Why? Do you owe somebody money?”
“Nah, it’s probably just my imagination getting the best of me.”
“Well save your thoughts for Queen Fidi and all the homage you’ll pay to her throne.”
I wanted to say “Word, Snuffy” but he wouldn’t understand.
“Yeah, I am going to visit the Queen someday.” I patted him on the back.
“Well, King Ryder, shall we walk back to the ‘cat house?’” Snuffy laughed at his own joke. “Maybe the big man you noticed was the fellow the cops were looking for. The bartender said something bad happened here earlier. He gave me no specifics. Providence is going downhill.” Snuffy shook his head.
We made it back to the Excelsior after we signed a few autographs along the way. I got back into my room, and turned in with no cat. I had a very weird, vivid dream that evening. I rode Hope on the handlebars of my bicycle, the pink of her dress fluttered.
FAQ
Are You Enjoying The Ride?
"Will Joe ever get home back to teaching?"
That's up to him and his relationship with Hope.
"Where is Hope from?"
From Northern California, at least that's what she says.
"Where is Hope's moral compass?"
Hope is an amalgamation of all her experiences. "Some good, some not so good," as Deirdre would say.
"When will the next Beyond book come out?"
Beyond Murder is out now!
"Will Hope do just about anything?"
As long as it's justified.
"What happens to Bags and Bear?"
Many have asked for a book from Bags' POV. He's serving time in 1885. Bear keeps getting arrested for playing his "sax" in public. Stay tuned to find out more.
Please send questions to [email protected]
Joe Di Bari C 2018
https://www.joedibari.com
Are You Enjoying The Ride?
"Will Joe ever get home back to teaching?"
That's up to him and his relationship with Hope.
"Where is Hope from?"
From Northern California, at least that's what she says.
"Where is Hope's moral compass?"
Hope is an amalgamation of all her experiences. "Some good, some not so good," as Deirdre would say.
"When will the next Beyond book come out?"
Beyond Murder is out now!
"Will Hope do just about anything?"
As long as it's justified.
"What happens to Bags and Bear?"
Many have asked for a book from Bags' POV. He's serving time in 1885. Bear keeps getting arrested for playing his "sax" in public. Stay tuned to find out more.
Please send questions to [email protected]
Joe Di Bari C 2018
https://www.joedibari.com