Chapter XXXI: Should've Known Better
Chapter Thirty-One: Should've Known Better
I parked outside Patanikolous's thin white slum on State Street across from the telephone company parking lot. Immediately, I heard Spiker, the evil white poodle, start to bark and snarl venomously in the house.
I taunted Spiker through the mail slot as he barked and bit at my fingers.
“I'm gonna get you, devil dog,” I said. “I'll never forgive you for going 6-20 in the Series.”
Cristo's mother answered the door because Cristo would have to move his big ass to get it. This was impossible since he hadn't moved from the couch in two years. The Law of Inertia could have been revised to state: A body in motion remains in motion until it encounters Cristo's couch. The house smelled like a biker bar.
I greeted Cristo's mom in Greek.
“Yasu”
“Hi, Oggy. Yah don't look so good. What's wrong? Yah sick?”
Her New England accent was so thick that I must pay tribute to it with an accurate transcription. She blew gray smoke into the air as she eyed me.
“Yeah, Stanley can't get the ball over the plate. You'd think he would realize that a pop up wins the game. I stay up all night visualizing Gedman catching strike three against Wilson, but when I play the tape hardly anything has changed.”
“Oooh. Be kehful. So yah staying around for a while this time? Huh?”
“Nope, I'm going to Mexico.”
“Jeez, you don't stay in one place long, for shu. Well, be kehful. They got snakes down theyauh. Drink a lot of watuh.”
Cristo's mom wrote the book on Folk Wisdom.
“Sure.”
“Ya want some nice cocoa? I got some hot watuh on.”
I nodded and she shuffled toward the kitchen. For the half second she was in front of the television she received a string of abuse from Cristo who could not miss that much of a Madonna dance video.
“Move, you old whore. What the fahk, you gonna stand there all day? Get your big ASS out of my face!”
“Stahp it, Cristo.”
“You stop it before I come over there and beat you. Get Oggy some food.”
“Yah still don't eat meat, Oggy?”
“No.”
“Well, I'll make you some rice and spinach pie. It's real good.”
“Ya gotta eat meat, Oggy,” insisted Cristo. “You weigh less than you did in Junior High School. Look at you. You're a fahkin’ twig.”
“Watch ya mouth, Cristo,” said his mother from the kitchen.
“Gedman just can't catch the ball, Sticky. It deflects off of the umps leg, you know. I swear that Dale Ford cost them that game. First he squeezes the plate on Schiraldi in the eighth and then he deflects the ball away from Gedman. If there was just some way.”
“It's hahd,” said Cristo's mom from the kitchen. “Be kehful.”
“Get Oggy his food. He's stahvin' tah death out heah.”
I was about to mention my idea about putting Dave Henderson behind Gedman as a backup when I felt a sharp pain in my leg. I looked down and saw Spiker's jaws solidly around my lower calf. I caught myself on a banister and my weight tore out an ornamental post, which I then swung at Spiker. As I was about to crush the little furry head, Cristo's younger sister, Beb, lumbered out of a door and pried Spiker off me.
“Don't hurt him,” she begged
“Hurt him? Beb, I'm going to tear his eyeballs out through his asshole!”
I swung the post and connected with a rear paw. Spike gave a yelp and Beb pulled him away. I swung again and struck his rib cage. Spiker struggled to bite me, clawing Beb's flabby arms.
Cristo yelled from the other room,
“Get your fat ass back in your room and take that shit eating mutt with you.”
“Shut up, pustis”
Cristo muted the television to show the seriousness of the situation. He wasn't going to be called a homosexual without consequences.
“If I have to get up I WILL tear your head off and shit down your neck. Do you want that, Fatty? Do you? If you want it then I'll do it. Just say one more thing and I will shove my foot up your smelly twat!”
Spiker growled at me as Beb shuffled back to the room and closed the door. I rubbed my leg.
“Fahk! I hate this house. I hate this town. I hate this state. I hate it! Gedman cursed us!”
Cristo's mom stood in the kitchen doorway dropping cigarette ashes in my cocoa.
“Ya don't mean that, Oggy,” she said.
She was too afraid to cross the path of the television again so she waited for me to move into the room.
“Si'down, Oggy, and have a nice cup of Cocoa and rice. Cristo, take your feet off the couch.”
Cristo didn't move and his mother didn't insist. I sat and drank the watery cocoa she had brought to me. The Den was small and over-furnished. There was a living room but it was at the front of the house where Beb was hiding with another television.
“What are you talking about going to Mexico? You don't got the Toddy Bonigans to go to Mexico.”
“I'll send you a postcard. You can count the days I'm gone.”
“You ain't goin'. No way. Stay here. I can get us tickets to Celtics games.”
“No. I don't care about the Celtics.”
“Come on. The last time you disappeared the Red Sox won the division. '92 is definitely the year. I hear their getting Butch Hobson to manage. Remember Hobby?”
“I remember him sucking for most of his career.”
“But he's a good manager, Oggy. This is it. Pena, Vaughn, Boggs. Who's better than the Sox?”
“No squared. I can't stay. My dad's driving me nuts. I'm gonna kill him soon.”
“Be kehful, Oggy. That's not nice.”
“You don't got the Burton Huggingtons to go to Mexico.”
As Beb walked in front of the TV cradling Spiker a magazine sailed through the air hitting her back. She yelled. Spike yelped. Cristo laughed. I guarded myself with the banister post.
“You fat, smelly, two-ton tub of shit. Do you think the TV is on for my amusement? I'm watching something, you fat whore. Move your vanilla jello pudding ass out of the way or I'll move it for you.”
Spike barked back and growled at Cristo.
“Spiker says, 'Go to Hell!' said Beb, translating.
“The dog should know how to get there, “ I offered.
Cristo swung his legs onto the floor, punched his oily right fist into his fleshy left palm making a smacking sound and said, “That's it, lard ass, you're dead.”
Beb yelled, “Dad!”
My ass sunk further into the vomit colored sofa. It was impossible to hear the television and, even though I didn't care what was on, this still bothered me. I tried to lip read the Boys II Men video. Couldn't the family fight when I wasn't here?
“You filthy slut, “Cristo yelled at his sister. “Move your pimply fat chub out of the way.”
“No. You move. Dad, Cristo is being a prick again.”
Cristo's mother was waving her hands causing ashes to fall on the thin carpet.
“Be kehful, Cristos.”
Beb stood in front of the television on purpose. Spiker snarled with all the fury of a bitch protecting her pups. I laughed and tried to watch the TV through Beb's large legs while I sipped my cocoa. It was like a live talk show of a warring family. But they were harmless, I knew. Cristo was pointing at both his mother and his sister and swearing, but, except for Spiker, it was all bark and no bite.
Cristo's father emerged from the bathroom, which was in the living room behind a door that could have been a broom closet. A man could piss and watch television at the same time and Cristo often took advantage of this fact. Zipping up his pants, his big broad olive colored face smiling, Zorba Patanikolous was on the scene.
“Cristo!” he yelled sharply and said something in Greek that Cristo responded to by sitting back and whining, “ She started it.” He pointed to Beb and the dog.
Cristo's dad looked at me and said, “Hey-a-Oggy. you likka chains n' whips?
“Whips?”
Cristo glared at Beb who stuck her tongue out. Then he mumbled, “He wants to know if you noticed the change of ships down at the docks.”
I sighed with relief. Great Zorba Patanikolous was a veteran of the Greek merchant marines. He claimed Greece had once had a bigger shipping industry than the U.S. Zorba ventured west on one of those steel tubs to bake pizzas in Maine and then Marshford.
Great Zorba had enjoyed a little too much of the good life and consequently earned a trip to the coronary ward at the Bone Harbor Hospital. Maybe he liked the convalescent trips to Greece where the climate comforted him the way a hot steak and cheese sub comforted Cristo. In the meantime he enjoyed life watching the ships at the Bone Harbor waterfront and listening to Greek radio on a short-wave. He worked on his garden in the summer and watched TV in the winter.
“Hey, Oggy, you dry a cah?”
“What?”
“He wants to know if you drive.”
“Yep, I fixed it up just a few days ago and it runs like a wild stallion. It's right out front. I'm going to Mexico.”
“Why not take this malaka here and go you?”
Malaka means one who masturbates in Greek. Zorba and Cristo used this term as freely as you or I would say “This guy”.
“Because Cristo is a big malaka,.” I said. “You know he takes it in the bum?”
I pointed at Cristo and then to my ass. Zorba laughed and pointed at Cristo.
“Hey pustis malaka! You pustis malaka? Hey Cristo”
Cristo pinched his face together like a sissy malaka.
“I'm not going anywhere. I got school and then I'm getting the fahk out of this town. I got a job lined up in Spain writing for the Real Madrid soccer team. I'm goin' to Spain and I'm gonna find your Mom and, Uh!”
He showed me his open palm like a traffic cop signaling me to stop. Then he pointed his middle finger at me. This was the Greek sign for sex. His mother said, “Awww, don't be mean. Be kehful” Big Zorba laughed.
“Yeah, you virgin, Cristo. He virgin, Oggy. He Pustis malaka.”
“That's right, Giorgo. He malaka. Sticky one big Malaka. He one big sissy Malaka. Yeah! Get him a body bag, Johnny!”
Although this last comment was a reference to the Karate Kid movie, and not meant for Zorba's amusement, he laughed anyway. Spiker barked from the other room. Cristo hugged a pillow to his chest like a sissy malaka. Zorba and I laughed and laughed. I would miss making fun of Cristo with his dad.
“You guys,” moaned Cristo's mom through a plume of smoke. “Be kehful.”
“What do you want? I don't even like you. Why are you here?” the sissy asked me as he tapped his own cigarette onto the carpet.
“Kodiak's getting back tonight. Big party. Let's get some wine coolers and go.”
“Fahk Kodiak! That Norwich pussy wouldn't have a party if he lost his cherry. He doesn't have the Rose McCorleys to have a party. Oooh. That's gotta hurt. Uh!”
Cristo loved bringing up little pieces of my misery and regret to make a point. The trick was to ignore him.
“There'll be girls. You might get a hand job. Huh, Zorba? Cristo might get malaka by a girl.”
Zorba laughed and laughed. “Hey, Malaka! You screw girl? Eh? Screw?”
“So your mom will be there, Oggy? Your mom'll jerk me off? Why should I go when I get her every night in bed? That makes no sense.”
Since his mother and father were right there I couldn't say that, in fact, his mom would be the main attraction of the night.
“Just go, alright?”
“I gotta write at the Herald tonight. BHHS J.V hoop. They're going all the way this year.”
I couldn't help but ask, “Like your 'M-O-M'?”
“Like your dad?” he answered.
“Fine, I'll come get you in the car.”
“Like it'll make it that far. It's a lemon.”
“I'm driving it to Mexico. You wanna come, Zorba? Go Mexico?”
“I go Athens. You take Malaka. Cristo, you go. Malaka! You! Screw.”
Zorba made motions for Cristo to come with me to Mexico and get laid. I wouldn't have taken his sissy ass even if he had agreed but it was sad to see Zorba try to get his son off the vomit colored couch and maybe get laid. Zorba obviously thought a trip to Mexico with a world traveler like me would be good for him. I pointed at Cristo and laughed.
“Yeah, you a malaka, Sticky. You a sissy malaka! Sweep the leg, Johnny!”
“Shut up. You don't got the...Scott Smiths to go to Mexico. Come get me at eight and leave your whore mother at home.”
“Aw, Cristo, that's not nice,” said his mother from the kitchen doorway. Her arms were crossed.
“Who's asking you? Did someone say something to you? I don't recall anyone ever saying anything to you. Do you, Oggy?”
Since Cristo had better cable than my house, I hung around a little to watch commercials and eat some snacks until Cristo took over the remote control.
“But I'm watchin' MTV.” Cristo followed this with a quick outburst in Greek. His father responded shortly. Cristo's mom said something. Then Cristo started to say something back but his father threw a pillow at him. My cocoa tasted like ash.
“That's it,” said Cristo. “I'm blowin' this Popsicle stand. Let's go to Gillies, Oggy.”
“Be kehful,” said his mom.
Gillies is a 1940s street car that was reincarnated as a greasy spoon hamburger and hot dog stand parked behind the former JJ Newberry's building. A three-story parking garage was built on the west side of Gillies in the mid-eighties so the lunch cart now sits between the two brick edifices, five decades out of place, but beloved nonetheless by anyone with enough stomach lining to digest one of their chili-cheeseburgers, which is what Cristo ordered when we arrived. Gillies offered omelets in the morning and Grilled Cheese sandwiches in the evening. I ordered a grilled cheese on wheat (extra cheese) and a slice of chocolate cream pie then sat down next to Cristo on a vintage spinning soda fountain stool. Gillies was not and will not be a chain. There were no manufactured neon signs and no big lighted menu boards. The menu, in fact, was written in magic marker on a paper plate. The cook did not wear a uniform and if there had been a bathroom, and there wasn't, it would not have had a sign that asked all employees to wash their hands before returning to work. It is the last of the one-man diner operations, and in my opinion, the best.
“That car ain't gonna make it to Riversook, let alone
“Why do you have to be so negative, Sticky. You're the pussy who never leaves, never goes anywhere.”
“Never leaves? I go to
The chili-cheeseburger and grilled cheese were ready. I brought them back to the narrow horseshoe shaped eating counter that bordered the inside of Gillies. I dipped the sandwich in ketchup and salt and tucked it away.
“Alright, Sticky,” I laughed. “You've forgotten more than I'll ever see? Sure. You're real cool. 'Look at me. I'm Sticky. I'm a big pussy. I've forgotten more than Oggy'll ever see. Ooooh.'“
“You're the worst. You're a bum.”
“I'm better than you.”
“Hey, at least I work. I put a nickel in my piggy bank at the end of the week. I work.”
“Sure. 'Look at me. I'm Sticky and I work a shit job at the Whaleswood toll booth. I'm real cool because I can count dollars. Oooh. My shitty job makes me better than Oggy.'“
Putting words in each other's mouths was our private little drama act. The trick was to be as idiotic as possible. I waved my grilled cheese sandwich around as Cristo shoveled the burger into his mouth from the paper bowl.
“Keep talkin' smack, Bill Buckner.”
“You always were a pussy. Even in fourth grade.”
“You're the sissy. Everyone loved me at
This was a total lie. Aside from the Special Ed kids who wore crash helmets to class, Cristo was one of the most terrorized students at
In order to avoid having his underwear pulled up his sweaty ass crack, Cristo would invent conflict to deflect the attention. As a crowd gathered around him and kids prepared to pummel him with stones or snowballs, Cristo would yell,
“Hey, you guys, do you want to hear what Oggy said about you?”
Yes, they did.
“I caught Oggy beating off in the bathroom and he said that he could kick all your asses. He did. It's true. Ask him.”
The fact that Cristo had not caught me beating off in the bathroom and I had never said I could kick anyone's ass, provided little relief and no justice.
“None of that is true,” I yelled. “Come on. He's lying. Kick his ass. Look at him. He's fat. Why are you so fat, Sticky? Ha! Fatty! What did you say, Sticky? Did you say you wanted to kick Kevin's ass? You want me to tell him that you can kick his ass? OK.”
So Kevin kicked Cristo in his head until Cristo pretended to be hurt. It was a common diversion tactic but seldom worked. Still, Cristo held his peg leg and faked an injury.
“You broke my shin. It's broken. Help!”
“No. He's just kidding,” I would cry. “Look at him. He isn't hurt yet. Kick him again.”
Cristo wiped the tears away from his face and point at me.
“Oggy told Mr. Buttstew that you all cheated on that last math test. I heard him. He said he wanted you to be suspended. It's true!”
“No I didn't. I never said that. He's lying. Kick his ass. Did you see that, Jeremy? He just gave you the finger. Awwww! You're dead, Sticky. Now Jeremy's going to kick your ass.”
But poor, thick-headed Jeremy was completely lost during this conversation. Caught between untying Cristo's shoes and looking at me and thinking, “What math test?” his brain seized. Now he would have to beat us both up just to make sure no one had gotten away with anything. Cristo would sit and rub his leg to make it appear he had been hurt. But every time I passed Cristo during my circuitous flight from Jeremy, I caught a sly smile creep up his greasy lips.
Cristo scraped the paper bowl and threw it into the trash. Gillies was not known for its portion size. Rather, it was just a place you could go and eat pretty much any time you were awake. The food would be edible and served promptly. One sandwich was seldom enough. Cristo slurped his can of soda empty and nodded to the man behind the counter.
“That hit the spot. Gimme one more, man. And give this bean pole another grilled cheese on wheat or whatever the fahk he had.”
“I don't want it,” I said, though I had finished my sandwich in three bites.
“You weigh less than you did in sixth grade, Oggy. Just eat it. I'm surprised you can stand up on those chicken legs.”
“Sticky, whole nations are starving to death. You know how many kids died in
Cristo rolled his eyes.
“Not this again. What else did you eat today?”
“Some chips at home. That rice your mom gave me. My dad never goes shopping. We’ve got the same can of chicken broth in the cupboard from 1983.”
“So eat another grilled cheese. Ain't nobody in
Then to the cook, “Make him one. He'll eat it.”
I made a Gorilla-like sound with my lips that was totally ambiguous but that in this case admitted defeat. The cook wordlessly flopped another patty on the grill and covered it with a hamburger bun and ringed it with diced onions. Then he lay two slices of wheat bread in a sequestered corner of the grill and put three slices of cheese on one of the slices. He then stirred the chili in a double broiler. I had to admit that the steamy meat aroma, the aged stools, the worn Formica eating counter, the cream pie, and the grilled cheese crumbs were comforting and pleasant. The gas furnace kept the compact room hot in the winter and the windows had screens for the summer. Little was expected of me at Gillies. The world was outside the sliding glass door. Traffic passed on Fleet and
Cristo wiped his mouth as he watched the man walk into a parking garage. “That was Mr. Rincon.”
“Who?”
I heard the cook flip the burger. It smelled good. Cristo raised his hand and sunk his head into his shoulders in an attempt to make himself look five years younger.
“Senor Rincon. Por Favor. Necessito a usar la bano.”
His accent was terrible.
“Spanish class?”
“Sophomore year. Remember? What a fahking joke.”
Cristo sniffed a wad of snot into the back of his tongue, rolled it around in his mouth and then washed it down with the remainder of his soda. He said something to the cook but I wasn't paying attention anymore. The wraiths spun their fog of history.
Sophomore year, 1987, was a blur of hormones and Bangles songs. On D-Day, October 25, 1986, the same day Game Six was played, a song called “The Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades” debuted. The songwriters must have been Mets fans because the exact opposite was true for me. Sure I wore sunglasses, but it was only because my eyes started to ache from watching the recording I had of the Red Sox blowing the World Series. Instead of sunshine and good fortune, I saw a never ending series of dark disappointments waiting for me around each corner of BHHS, especially in Spanish class, which was during second period, the hour after the sugar rush from the ice cream bar I ate for breakfast had passed.
“Senor Bleacher? Sabes que hacer para trabajar?”
“Huh?”
I'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, my head nodding violently from my chest to my back like my brain weighed fifty pounds. All I heard was the repeated play by play from Game Six. The 0-2 pitch to Knight. Base hit to center field! Carter scores! Carter scores!
“Gary Carter?” I mumbled absurdly.
The class laughed, delighted for some relief. Second period was hard on us all. Buddy hit me with a balled up piece of paper.
“It ain't hip to be square, Oggy.”
Then, while Mr. Rincon scolded Buddy, Toddy Bonigan whipped a glob of spit at my back.
“Fahking loser.” He said under his breath. “Wake up and stop beating off!”
Cristo laughed and made a face at me.
“Hey, Bullwhip,” he whispered. “Oggy was talking so much shit about you in Study Hall.”
“I'll bet,” said Bonigan as he spit on me again. Then he spit on Cristo.
I looked for Chrissy Jenkins among the unfriendly faces. Here was her chance to stand up for me, to protect me, to show that she had an ounce of nurturing instinct in that beautiful bosom of hers. Instead she looked at me and mouthed the words, “You Smell” very slowly and brushed her Stacy Q crimped hair behind her ear. All I could see were her wet lips. So pretty. So soft. I loved her.
“Senor Bleacher? Are you alright?”
“I'm sick.”
“Estas enferma?” Asked Mr. Rincon with an uneasy smile.
“Si. Schiraldi threw a meatball to Knight on an 0-2 pitch. He threw a meatball! Why?”
I stood up and pulled the 1986 team photo out of my pocket. It was still relatively fresh from my wall and didn't have to be taped together yet. I just liked carrying it with me. The Sox needed my company. I pointed to Schiraldi's grinning face.
“He threw a meatball. How do you say that in Spanish? Una pelota de carne. Why?”
Mr. Rincon stuttered for a moment while Chrissy moved her desk a few inches away from me. Cristo pointed to my seat, gesturing for me to sit down. Bonigan coughed into his hand and at the same time said, “Asshole.” Everyone in the class laughed except me. I stood and pointed at the team photo.
“What are you laughing at? Dewey promised they'd win. He gave me his hat and his promise. Stop laughing! Por Favor. Stop. My life is falling apart. How do you say that in Spanish?”
Evan Squidly handed me a wrinkled piece of paper that said, “We the undersigned are forever enemies of Oggy Bleacher.” Cristo was the first one on the list.
“Better watch yourself,” said Bonigan. Then he flicked more spit on my leg.
A cloud had paused over my head on October 25, and there was 100 percent chance of grief. Later in the fall, Cristo would call and ask me if I wanted to go to a BHHS football game. Because he was such a sissy, he couldn't miss a game.
“You've got to get off that couch and come out. Everybody's asking about you. Go to a football game. The Clippers are 4-0 and they play
“I just want to watch Hernandez get out again. His face is the best. He knows they are about to lose. Has your back hurt since they lost? My back is killing me. I can't even have sex with your mom.”
“Oggy! You have to see Bost run kickoffs. He's a truck. Kids just fly off of him. He's The Rock! Don't waste your time on that game.”
“You don't know me, Sticky. You don't know what I need. The Sox have to win Game Six. There must be a way.”
“Don't worry about the Sox. Buckner said they'll be back. Dewey'll be back. Barrett'll be back. Boggs, Gedman, Rice, Tom Seaver. They'll be ten times better now that they know what to expect. Eighty-Seven is gonna be their year. Just watch. Spring training starts in a hundred days. They can't lose two years in a row. Forget Eighty-Six.”
I didn't forget '86 and the Sox finished fifth place in 1987 with a miserable 78-84 record as Cristo and I started our Junior year. The acquisition of Ellis Burks overloaded the outfield and McNamara was forced to platoon Burks, Henderson, Rice, Evans and Greenwell in the outfield. This rarely leads to good performances and it didn't for the '87 Sox. Bill Buckner's age and ankles, not his Game Six error, was the contributing factor to his sharing first base with Dwight Evans until Buckner was released in July. It was sad to see Mike Greenwell playing right field instead of Dewey but I'd seen it before when Jim Rice replaced Yaz in left field. Yaz had replaced Ted Williams. The seasons take their toll equally on ballplayers and a little boy's dreams. Dewey followed in the faded footsteps of Yaz, Rose and Andrew Ridgeley of Wham! First he was platooned at the less demanding first base, next he would become a designated hitter. After that he could only hope to become a hitting coach or maybe a season ticket holder. Based on Bob Stanley's awful performance as a reliever, the Sox decided to see if he would do any better as a starting pitcher. This is the same as serving shit as the main course instead of the desert. Would anyone eat it? Hardly. By throwing the first pitch instead of the last pitch,
My Youthsongs were originally true tales of High School longing, quirky anecdotes the tribe could enjoy, but as the winter stretched out like bottom of the tenth inning, cold and strewn with abandoned cans, I started to invent stories to soften the second place New England chill. Our past, the treasured memorabilia of our early adolescence, was suddenly overshadowed by a false reality I created in my bedroom while I stroked Darcy's stiff sock. But the tribe didn't care as long as the fire blazed.
Time made few demands on those seated around the yellowed counter sipping Gillies coffee and eating a Gillies dog. I was free to bend my own time line to touch 1986 or 1988 or 1980. This was the magic of Gillies. A small television above the grill played a daytime drama.
“I heard Mr. Rincon was a butt-pirate,” said Cristo casually as he got up to get his second chili-cheeseburger.
“He fahked Bullwhip in the locker room,” I remarked while looking out the window. “Remember the fight out there with Huggy and that other kid?
“The big one? The brawl?”
“Remember when he crashed his car into the dumpster?”
“That idiot. He was trashed. What was that about?”
“It was about sacrifice,” I said.
As Cristo paid for the food he asked the cook if he remembered the fight.
“When was it?”
“Five, six years ago.”
“I was still working at The Scoreboard.”
Cristo asked if the Sox had signed Butch Hobson as a manager yet.
“Don't know,” said the cook. “Hobson's a bum. Back in the day, I watched him strike out three times against some bum from
“Well they can't bring Morgan back. No one likes him in the clubhouse. Clemens can't stand him. Gimme a milk. Whole. You want anything to drink, Dewey?”
I took another root beer. Cristo brought his burger back to the counter and delivered my grilled cheese on wheat. I squirted some ketchup on the plate and tucked in again.
“You can't leave, Oggy. Clemens is gonna win thirty games this year. You seen his split-finger fastball? Unhittable.”
“Then why couldn't he throw it in the eighth inning of game six.”
“Oggy, they couldn't let Clemens bat with a guy in scoring position and one out. They had to pinch hit for him. It was a tie game. Schiraldi should've stepped up. You can't blame Clemens.”
“For your information, the Sox were winning three to two in the eighth. They were leading. That's why you leave Clemens in to hold the lead.”
“You're crazy. You couldn't coach the Ricci Little League team. Hey, dude? You know '86? Game Six?”
The cook turned as he cleaned the solid metal grill. He sighed and said, “Yeah.”
“Do you let Clemens hit with
He shrugged like this was a question he heard every day, like it was the equivalent of asking how to make a Western omelet. The answer was obvious.
“Clemens's tank was empty. Bottom of the eighth coming up. Gotta pinch hit for him. A hit there breaks the game open.”
I shook my head.
“Empty? He got the Mets one-two-three in the seventh. He had plenty left in the tank.”
“You can't win without a bullpen, man,” said the cook.
Cristo stood up and applauded. Chili fell out of his mouth.
“Thank you. No truer words. Thank you. What was I tellin' you, Oggy? You can't just leave Clemens in there because he's your ace. The move to make is the pinch hitter.”
“Then why didn't McNamara pinch hit Baylor in the tenth? If you're gonna take out Clemens after giving up two runs in seven innings don't you take out Schiraldi after giving up one run in one inning?”
“Please. You're spitting your food, kid. The Gator had a wicked swing. He could'a broken that game open with a triple.”
I whipped out the 1986 team photo.
“But he didn't. He struck out like a sissy and he didn't stay in the majors for more than five years. He was a loser with that bullshit Charlie Lough, Walt Hrineak helicopter swing theory. Greenwell is probably fielding balls at a batting cage now. McNamara should've known. The move is to pinch hit Baylor, the veteran.”
I poked Baylor's face in the photo. Cristo blinked at me.
“So you agree that someone needs to pinch hit for Clemens?”
“No. I'm just saying that if you're gonna take Clemens out then you gotta pinch hit Baylor. But really you should let Clemens try to poke the ball to the right side. The worst thing that happens is that there are two outs and
I poked Clemens's face as Cristo looked conspicuously past my shoulder. I spun around to see the cook looping his finger around his ear. He put it down quickly and got back on the grill.
“Oh, I'm crazy? Me? You don't know who I am. You don't know who Ray Knight is.”
As I waved the photo in the air the cook put his hands up in mock surrender and kept scraping the grill. There was an uneasy silence. The stool squeaked as I obsessively rocked back and forth.
“But Greenwell 'K's and Boggs and Barrett walk and that brings Buckner in to face Orosco with bases loaded and two outs. Then what? What do you do?”
Said the cook to no one, “A buddy of mine went hunting with Buckner two years ago. The second baseman was there too. What was his name?”
“Marty Barett.”
“Yeah. Good Joes. He…”
I interrupted, “But do you let him bat against Orosco?”
“He can hit lefties,” said the cook. “Why not?”
It was hot in Gillies. The gas heater blasted super dry heat onto my legs. I wiped my sweaty face with my hand.
“Because he was four-for-the-series and you have Don Baylor on the bench.”
“Mac had a hunch,” said the cook with a flip of the spatula. “They lost. Fahk it.”
“Hunch? That fahking hunch destroyed me. Buckner flew out to end the inning. Hunch? It ruined my fahking life. A base hit wins that game. Now look at me. Look!”
I held out my thin arms so the cook could see the bruises near my elbow from carrying wood to the Youthfire. I brushed my long beard with my oil-stained hands and let the dandruff tumble onto my cracked shoes. I tugged at my scalp and pulled some long strands of hair out, letting them drift to the floor. I showed the cook my swollen gums and the tooth that hurts when I eat ice cream.
“Look. Do you think I always looked like this? Do you think this is fun for me? I was a man once. I had a life!”
The cook didn't say anything.
“I played baseball. I was good. I played against Gordy Clutcher. I was gonna play for the Sox.”
My voice cracked as my throat tightened. The wraiths swarmed the windows to watch my agony.
“But they lost in '86 and my back started to hurt and then my knees went bad. Before that I was good. I was really good. I was a catcher like Fisk and I was good. Remember Sticky? Tell him.”
Cristo mopped up his paper plate with a piece of burger bun, totally unmoved by my condition.
“Please, Oggy. You ran like Buckner when you were seventeen-years-old. And you had no arm. You hobbled around on that cane all winter.”
“Because I hurt my leg in '86. Remember? I got hurt and couldn't run after the Sox lost. Some hunch. McNamara ruined me.”
“You were slow before that and you froze on every fahkin’ hanging curveball. All you looked for was the walk. 'Look at me. I'm Oggy Bleacher. Ooooh. I've got a good eye so I just watch four balls and then run down to first base like a sissy who can't hit. I'm a gimp and my name is Oggy.' You had no arm. An old woman could steal second on you. You were a first base coach at best. Ask everyone: you were nothing.”
“Hey, I'm the one who played. We won the State Championships. Remember? I was a catcher just like Fisk. I was good. I played against Gordy Clutcher once. I kissed Rose McCorley Remember?”
I turned back to the cook and told him that I was on the BHHS baseball team that won the 1988 State Championship. The cook nodded his head as he watched the television.
“But you sucked your Senior year,” said Cristo. “You didn't even play.”
In 1989 a Junior with a nice smile and quick feet edged me out at my position. At the same time Dewey was entering the Designated Hitter stage of his career like Yaz and so many other aging sluggers who could still hit twenty home runs but couldn't catch up with the line drives in the gap. For my last year of high school baseball I got to watch Bubba Heep catch in my place while I hit for whoever was slacking off at the plate or was academically ineligible because they had skipped school. I had followed baseball too long to ignore the natural course of a career. First I'd platoon at second base until an error or two. Then I'd be allowed to hit for the weaker Juniors, but how many 0-4 games would I be allowed? How many rally killing strike outs would my coach overlook? How many times would he say “Good hustle” when I was thrown out by a step at first base? Would he accept my excuse that my back had hurt since the Sox lost in '86? Yaz already knew the answer and Dewey was learning. We weren't being prepared for a long career; we were only getting pity at-bats because the coach knew it our last year.
In one of the last June games of my senior year I hit a ball to the right field gap and was thinking double out of the batter's box. I hustled around first base, the crowd was cheering for a double, my team needed it. I could make it. Bubba might have been faster but he didn't have my heart or my loyalty. What did he know about practicing for hours in the concrete whiffle ball court, hitting and catching until my arm felt like a sock full of pennies? What did he know about pain? Did he know Ray Knight? No. What did he know about sacrifice? As I ran for second base I felt as light as a feather, as light as a Calvin Schiraldi fastball. Maybe the sun would shine again. Maybe there was hope.
My cleats caught a small hole in the dirt as I went into my awkward slide. My tendons strained. My spine took the heavy jarring impact on the dirt. All the steam I had built up was driven into the dirt and as I was about to reach the bag I felt the sickening thud of a glove on my back.
“Yer Out!” called the ump.
The inning was over. I stood up slowly. Something minor had torn in my knee. A grinning Toddy Bonigan jogged past me as I limped into the dugout like every other pathetic designated hitter.
“Nice hustle,
All the players taking the field went out of their way to tell me I had hustled well. Nice try. Good effort. I knew then what the last words Yaz had heard before hanging up his spikes. It was like saying someone had a nice personality. When you stretch a single into a double your teammates tell you, “Way to go! Nice Play!.” When you get thrown out they tell you, “Good hustle.” The whole team had known before me that all I had left was hustle, all I had was heart. Cristo was standing by the fence laughing at me with Buddy.
“My mother could've gotten a double out of that! Give it up, Buckner! Get a cane!”
I limped into the dugout and collapsed on the bench. I was the hired gun, the designated hitter, and my glove had become like a Stripper's disposable prop. The pain in my back was more serious than I thought. Asprin wasn’t taking the bite off. Coach Johnson looked at me from where he stood keeping score.
“Nice hustle, Bleacher. That guy had a great arm. Perfect throw. Good try.”
He shook his head, but I knew what he was thinking, “Too bad that was your last at-bat.”
The light-footed Junior was in the lineup as the designated hitter the next game. He went 3-4 with a double, two singles and an RBI. He was fast and his uniform was dirty in all the right places. His cute girlfriend clapped from the stands. They were winners. 1989 would be the last season for Jim Rice, Bob Stanley, Tony Armas and me. Gedman and Evans both hung on to
I looked at Cristo as he licked the chili off his lips. Then I said bitterly, “At least I played, Malaka. You just stood next to the fence and ate fried dough. 'Oooh. Look at me. I can criticize all the players but I'm just a sissy. I stand around and eat French fries and hamburgers because I'm a loser. I don't ever play any sports but I think I'm hot shit. Oooh. I'm such a loser and my name is Sticky.'“
As I put these words in Cristo's mouth, I pranced in a small circle and flopped my wrists limply. Cristo sat back to let the food digest and said nothing. He was watching two women standing in front of the dance center across Fleet street. They were cute in wool overcoats. I could tell they were slim and light but would eat a plate of onion rings and watch Its A Wonderful Life in front of a fire and talk about the Sox. Just by looking at them I could tell that we were my perfect mates. If they would only give me a chance.
“I think we went to BHHS with the chick on the right,” mused Cristo. “From Willowville. A year behind us. Amanda something. Huggy fahked her.”
Ugh. The suggestion that Huggy had dated her was like saying she'd once had the Black Plague. You might be able to survive dating Huggy, but it would scar you forever.
“Go talk to her, Oggy. Maybe she'll go to
While I fumed, Cristo asked the cook, “Ya got any Pecan Pie? No? I'll take a slice of Apple. And another milk.”
As Cristo well knew, my reluctance to talk to girls dated back to my days at the Junior High School when I decided girls were completely insane. They had no appreciation for Baseball and next to no interest in video games. Clearly, they were not fully functioning members of society. It was better that the Dream Machine was dominated by boys because I didn't have to explain my Venture quest as I would to the occasional female spectator.
“Isn't it obvious that I'm at war against the Goblin king and am rescuing the treasures of my people from the ghosts and lizards who live in the dungeons? Jeez! Would I fight dragons for nothing?”
“So if you're protecting Earth from the space invaders, why do they just keep coming?”
“Because they are clones, duh! That is why the big clones are worth 200 points. They are the cloning machines from the planet Galaga. It is impossible to kill them all until you destroy all the mother units. Are you even paying attention?”
“If you said that when an outfielder catches the ball then the batter is out then why did that person just run home after that outfielder caught the ball?”
“Well, if you took your eyes off your nail polish for more than ten seconds you would realize that the runner on third base could only leave the bag after he had 'tagged up' a milli-second after the ball was caught by the left fielder. This is completely acceptable and often encouraged. In fact, The Sox won Game Five of the ALCS in Eighty-Six on a Sacrifice Fly. And Lee Mazilli scored in just this manner to tie the score in the bottom of the eighth inning of Game Six when that pud-wacker Schiraldi collapsed under pressure. Sac-flies are very important. Or were you too concerned with your perm to notice that he just scored a critical run for his team?”
“If the ball carrier is down after he gets tackled then why are those guys kicking that one kid even though he's down.”
“Oh. Well, that's Sticky and any time he carries the ball he gets beat up. In fact, I should go out there and get my kicks in. Otherwise, you're right. Once you're down then you can't get hit anymore. Sticky is an exception.”
Only Sue Becker had the brains to understand the connection between base runners and runs, space capsules and the 'Challenge Round'. I often saw her at the Dream machine tilting the pinball machines and swearing boyishly when her Joust game unjustly ended. She was tough as nails and could spit on a dime. She wore here hair short and “Spaz” Bunson had bigger breasts than she did so there was almost nothing to qualify her as a girl. She was even a catcher like me in little league until someone broke her arm in a home plate collision. After that things went down hill for Sue. She developed hips by Junior high school and by 10th grade she just edged Spaz out in the Tit department. The Dream machine closed down in '84 and she didn't even bother to enter the Fox Run Mall's new arcade. Until she put on a dress and tried out for the girl's field hockey team, I almost considered her an equal.
Back in Gillies, Cristo was closing the deal on his piece of pie.
“I'm gonna meet my wife in
“Whatever,” said Cristo as he finished his slice of apple pie. “It’s your pathetic life.”
I glanced at Poncho in the parking lot.
Then I started to have second thoughts. Maybe I shouldn't have quit the summer baseball league two years earlier just because a younger kid was going to play more than me. At least I could have watched from the bench instead of the bleachers. If I went to
Why couldn't I just return to simpler days when Yaz was the designated hitter and Jim Rice was hitting doubles off the Green Monster, when masturbation was still new and exciting? Did adulthood mean sacrificing all the goodness I'd learned in my adolescence?
“I'll find a nice girl in
“Speaking of big tits, Rose'll be at the party tonight. Ask her to go. She'll drop out of George Mason to go with you. Ha. Sure. 'Look at me. I'm Oggy and I love Rose even though she's my best friend's sister. I get thrown out at second base and I love my best friend's sister. Ooooh. I'm so queer.' Hey, are you still beating off on Rose's yearbook picture? Come on. You can tell me.”
“You just talk and talk. Blah, Blah, Blah. You just vomit words. 'Look at me. I'm Sticky and I have nothing to say so I just talk out my asshole.' I loved Rose, alright. I loved her. Don't even mention her with those filthy lips of yours.”
“You loved her big hooters. 'Oooh. I'm Oggy and I love Rose's big hooters but I think I love her. I'm such a fahking loser because my name is Oggy.'“
“No. I loved her for her. We connected. She understood me. I loved her.”
“Well, where is she now? Huh? Gone. They use you up and take off. They play with you and beat it. They let you get close and then they break your heart, just like the fahkin’ Sox. They screw with your head and split. Face it: They're all no good.”
The cook paused scraping the grill for a moment and used a metal spatula to emphasize the finer points of his comment.
“Let me tell you a little secret, guys. At your age, ain't none of 'em virgins no more. Somebody - their boyfriend, their lifeguard, their teacher, their priest, their lesbo girlfriend, their pervert uncle, somebody - already been everywhere you can go. You can call 'em sluts but ain't none of 'em got a cherry left to pop. That's just a fact of life when you get old. Ya start aimin' for somethin' you can hit. Ain’t gonna be no Little Bo Peep come walking out of the fahkin’ virgin factory with her pussy wrapped in plastic just for you. Nope.”
The cook shook his head sadly as he recalled a year or two of his life waiting fruitlessly for Little Bo Peep the virgin.
“Sluts,” Cristo repeated with emphasis and sucked a piece of food from between his teeth.
“No,” I said. “I loved Rose. I was the one who went to
“That's why they lost, too.” Said Cristo before ordering another slice of pie.
How had I gone from coveting Rose McCorley’s sports bra at BHHS track meets to escorting her to Sox games? It was an incredible achievement when placed within the time frame of the Red Sox ultimate collapse and my decline into a Timewraith hell. Our casual meetings in the hallway or at
One moment Cristo and I were throwing water balloons at crowds of skateboarders at
When Rose asked why the game didn't end after seven innings it took an enormous amount of self-control to sit back down and explain that only High School games end after seven innings. This was professional baseball. Pro Ball. Professional games go nine innings. Nine. She kissed me sweetly on the cheek and took my hat off and put it on her head. She looked adorable but Cristo nearly passed out. This was
“You had to bring her. Why, Oggy? Why? Did you think she was going to give you a blow job in the bleachers?”
He pointed to the scoreboard.
“Look what you did! Look what thinking with your balls does to the Sox. Shame on you. Is it any surprise they're in fourth place? Huh? Seventy years without a championship. Don't they have enough to worry about? I'll bet you wanted them to lose in Eighty-Six. Didn't you? You like it when they lose. It's fun for you. That's why you bought the tickets to the ALCS instead of the World Series. You knew they were going to lose. You knew Oil Can was gonna get shelled. You wanted Schiraldi to blow it.”
“But I hadn't kissed her in '86. It wasn't her fault,” I begged.
“So? You were weak. You aren't a real fan. You bring a chick to Fenway? You don't have the Luis Riveras to kick Rose out of here.”
I put my head between my knees. Was it true? Had I just pretended to be a fan? So much was happening around me that I couldn't concentrate. The Sox were in fourth place. Dewey wasn't the regular right fielder anymore. I'd quit the summer baseball team to sell cigarettes and pave driveways and get ready to go to
“You had better get your noodles straight before Rose gets back, Oggy. Get your head out of your ass! Romine!” Cristo yelled to the Sox right fielder. “Hey, Romine! Tell Oggy to get his head out his ass.”
Kevin Romine ignored Cristo but I knew what he would say to me. I had betrayed the Red Sox by bringing Rose McCorley to the game. I was the reason Dewey wasn't playing right field. And my hope of getting a hand job in the center field bleachers was obviously complicated by the twenty thousand fans surrounding us.
I was disgraced and humiliated but when Rose came back and put her hand on my leg I shuddered. It took enormous discipline not to run into the bathroom and beat off into the piss trough, but just considering such a thing did irreparable damage to the Red Sox. Dewey struck out to end the game. The Red Sox lost 10-0. Dewey went 1-4 with one strikeout. I knew in my heart that I had caused it by bringing Rose into my shrine. It was my fault they lost. I had selfishly put my sex drive in front of the pennant drive.
To punish myself I sat in front of my Roger Clemens poster, pounding a baseball into my bare hand, listening to Richard Marx on WHEB, praying for the strength to resist Rose's sultry temptations. I even tried to do the Kuji Kiri hypnotic hand movements, sacred to the Ninjitsu brotherhood, but I had forgotten five of the nine. I always ended up doing the same thing: calling Rose, running over to her house, kissing her tender mouth and rubbery McCorley nipples, avoiding
Cristo once interrupted Rose and me as we tangled on my father's couch. I was so angry at him I could have cut his throat.
“Get the fahk out of my house and never come over again or I'll cut you up and bury you under the stairs so Twain can piss on you.”
“So that's how it's going to be?” he asked “You don't want to play whiffle ball? It’s still light enough. Gordy is gonna be there.”
I had an erection as tall as the
“This is how it’s going to be for now and forever. Take your whiffle ball bat and shove it up your ass.”
“Why are you being so queer?”
“You know why.”
He looked over my shoulder into the living room where Rose's penny loafers lay on the carpet.
“You couldn't get laid in a whorehoues with a fistfull of hundreds.”
“That isn't true, Sticky. Your mom gave me a sloppy five-dollar hummer last night.”
“Alright Don Johnson. You're real cool. How 'bout that Sox game this weekend?”
“I...”
I choked on my words.
“No more Sox games. The Sox can... rot in hell. Me and Rose are gonna get married. We’re gonna have a family.”
Cristo's face drooped in horror. He swallowed.
“You don't mean that. Take it back. There's still time.”
“You and Roger Clemens can go screw yourself.”
“What about Dwight Evans? If you talk shit about Dwight Evans then I'll leave. Think what you're doing. Think!”
My heart was pounding so hard in my chest it was interfering with my breathing. Rose was lying on the couch with her shoes off and Cristo was standing in front of me with a whiffle ball bat. This was the moment of decision. I had choices to make. Rose and sex or Cristo and The Red Sox. The pre-cum had already made a small dark stain on my jeans. What could Dwight Evans do for that? Dewey only had one season left.
“I...I don't care if Dwight Evans ever...ever wins... the World Series... Go home Sticky. It's over. Just go home.”
Rose came out to see what was taking so long. She tucked her shirt back in her pants.
“Oooh, Cristo. Look at those big ears. So cute! Let me feel those wookie bookie ears.”
She reached for Cristo's flappy ears but he backed away.
“I don't want to disturb you two,” he said bitterly. “I'll go tell Dewey you won't be coming out to play no more. I'll see ya.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“He's just growing up. You want a big wookie to tug on? Come here.”
That was the high water mark of my affair with Rose. In the bottom of the eighth inning of our relationship I cracked and drove to
Cristo put a dollar in the cook's tip tray.
“Let's blow this Popsicle stand. Thanks, chief. Good chow.”
The cook was engrossed in rearranging the contents of the refrigerator, but I nodded to him anyway and stepped into the freezing wind blowing through the Fleet Street corridor. As winter whipped through my beard I knew why I was leaving. Unless you are a black bear, December sucks in
“Come on, Dewey. Light a fire under your ass. Let's see if this piece of shit starts.”
Cristo kicked the passenger door causing a clump of packed snow to fall from the wheel well.
“Kick Poncho again and I will come over there and boot you so hard in the ass.”
“Alright, Oggy. Sure. 'Look at me. I'm Oggy. Ooooh. I've got a car and I think I'm better than Sticky. Ooooh. I'm so cool because I'm driving to
Cristo pretended to kick the car again. I pretended to throw something at him. The car started up on the first try and I peeled out of the parking lot, nearly hitting Mr. Rincon as he stepped into the street.
“Puta maricon!” Cristo yelled.
I drove through
Cristo thumped his chest with his fist and lit a cigarette.
“Ooh. Wicked heartburn. You ever get that? Damn. I wonder what causes it.”
The Gap, god bless 'em, was open and doing brisk business for the holiday. The world was obviously lacking enough multi-colored scarves and form-fitting, taupe colored turtleneck sweaters. A Salvation Army Santa Claus was in front of the bus stop with his red caldron. I was happy that Gap customers had to pass this deranged spectacle to buy their Asian-made threads. Guilt, or at least mirth-killing pity, was assured.
“Remember JJ Newberrys?” I asked “Remember all the crap in there? I stole so much candy from them.”
Cristo grimaced as he blew smoke out the gap in the windshield.
“We got Spiker there in Eighty-Six, right after the Sox traded what's-his-face to
“Rey Quinones for Dave Henderson and Spike Owen.”
“Quinones! Oh! What a shit bum. Spiker cost like ten bucks and we got lunch too.”
“Newberrys was the best,” I said.
“Malls are better. Cheaper. There's no place to park down here.”
“They built the parking garage.”
“That was after. Malls are better.”
The other trinket stores appeared busy selling whale bone scrimshaw, glass ornaments, jewelry, exotic tobacco, quartz elephants and
“Yeah, this'll make it to
And after a pause he said, “You know pinch hitting Greenwell was the right move. Admit it.”
“Never.”
Cristo put the tape back in and held it there for a few delicate seconds. We looked at each other as “Mirror Man” pumped out of the left rear speaker only. This time the tape stayed in.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 12:05 AM
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