Chapter XLIX : We Don't Need Another Hero
Chapter Forty-Nine: We Don't Need Another Hero
I rolled around for five hours imagining what I would say to the judge in the morning. My long speech quoted the Constitution and a focused on a man's right to travel. A shorter speech outlined various criminal allegations against President Bush and former President Reagan, arguing against the hypocrisy of my having to be judged while genocidal monsters were free to play golf and smuggle weapons. My least favorite speech involved asking for the court's mercy and ended with “If my crimes must be punished then I accept my punishment in the name of all political prisoners.” None of these contingencies had much hope of an acquittal, so I tossed on my Star Wars sheets as sleet tapped on the windows. What I needed to help me go to sleep was my sock, but I couldn't find it. In fact, various things in my room, from my throwing stars to my arcade game high score list were MIA. I assumed it had been my father and made a note to berate him as soon as the court case was over. “D-Question authority, priv. Issues. Reimburse?”
Nothing, not even putting Billy Squier's 1982 Emotions in Motion album on repeat, could postpone the morning. I finally had to get up and when I went into the bathroom to scrub my face I took a long look in the mirror and didn't find much to put on the back of my baseball card. My highlights were most people's embarrassing mistakes. My career had been spent mostly in the minor leagues. My stats were erratic. Even I would've traded me. My mustache had curled under my lip and into my mouth. Hairs would catch between my teeth inadvertently when I ate. My beard was growing like a plant toward the sun. I looked like a kid that The Addams Family was too embarrassed to allow out of the basement. If I walked into the courtroom looking like Grizzly Adams' pet wolf--if security would even let me get that far--the judge would have no option except find me guilty, award 2500 of the best to Rachel, and give me a stern warning. My cotton patch, in short, was toast.
So I shredded my chin to ribbons scraping the beard off. Pigs bleed less when they are hung upside down on a hook and stabbed in the throat. The bathroom looked like a suicide scene. All that was missing was “Die Ray Knight! Die!” written in blood on the mirror. But why should I give people the satisfaction of going to my funeral and nodding sadly, mumbling their condolences, donating twenty dollars to the Central Little League fund? Why should I give them the chance to say they were right about me, that I was really crazy and why, oh why, couldn't they have done something sooner? No. I'll be the one at their funerals with my Red Sox 1986 World Champions banner. I'll be the one laughing.
The hair was dispatched with an elastic band into a single clump that I tucked under my Sox cap. With all the fur gone and my hair behind my head, I looked like I had in 1986, big ears and red face, brown eyes staring straight through the glass.
“Ready for your big day? Ogden?”
My father was walking down the hall and had probably assumed I was still in bed, where I belonged. This was two times in under a week that I had arisen before noon, a dark trend.
“Uuh,” I groaned from the bathroom as I blotted my face.
“What happened in here? You filet a steak? Oh, you shaved. Did you use shaving cream?”
“Resources,” I grumbled. “Resources are frittered away on gadgets and doodads. Must I remind you of this every day?”
“Relax. A little shaving cream isn't going to destroy the ozone layer.”
This was precisely the attitude that converted the Central American rain forest into hamburger farms.
“Well, it won't matter after today. I'm going to show the world what I can do. I bet the judge recommends I go to Law school. Maybe he'll make me an honorary barrister based on my keen observations and insurmountable arguments. Lady justice will weep tears of joy.”
“Alright, Matlock. Could I use the toilet?”
While my father was in the bathroom, I went and picked out a three-piece suit from his closet. It fit snugly but not unfashionably. The low-heeled shoes I found were not my size, but since I thought my cloth moccasins would clash with the outfit, I would have to make do.
“You look like a pimp,” said my father when he saw me.
“A pimp who is going to win the case of a lifetime.”
“Well, good luck, Perry Mason.”
“Dad. My rhetoric will be sublime. They should charge admission. Justice will be served “
“That would be a first.”
Then he was gone and I went over the map I had drawn of Downtown Bone Harbor. I thought visual aids would benefit my argument. I had marked JJ Newberrys and Gillies and Justin's apartment and the Unitarian Church near the scene of the accident. I had been able to draw the map along with street names purely from memory, and as I admired my work I realized that, other than Fenway Park, downtown Bone Harbor, and the Bone Harbor High School, I couldn't draw anything as accurately. Sure, I had The Gap marked as JJ Newberrys and the Dance Studio across from Gillies was identified as the thrift store that closed in 1987 and the parking garage was still labeled “Sand lot”, but that was how I remembered the landmarks. The Whiffle Ball courts next to the JFK Center could be listed no other way. Near Leary Field I had written, “Gordy Clutcher hit a home run here in June 28th, 1987.” And near the Jones Ave. dump, a location that had no relevance in the case, I had marked out all the secret locations we had hidden during our Capture The Flag games and also the location of Ogden's Point and the original camping spot where Erin and I nearly froze to death. In the South Street Cemetery I had written “Mack Wynter is buried in here somewhere.” Also listed were the bridge near Prescott Park where I had jumped into the river with Kurt and JoJo the summer before JoJo moved to Plumsook, the football field where Squidly had dropped so many passes, Fort Stark, the Bowl-o-Rama, Darcy's house, Kurt's old house, even a concrete nook where I had hidden a quarter in 1983 and periodically went back to check on it. It was all here. Everything I could remember about Bone Harbor had been marked and indexed and explained with a bubble of scribbles. If anything could help my case by demonstrating how clear headed, socially conscious, and committed to my town I was, the map was it. Tom Sawyer, I thought, would have given an approving nod to the map and even Holden Caulfield might've considered it authentic and not “Phony”. I tucked it under my arm, grabbed a banana, and scooted out the door.
The temperature was around fifty, which was good because the dress pants were extremely breezy without underwear. I walked between Leary field and the basketball courts, both empty on a school day morning in mid-January. The committed kids, kids who would skip school to practice lay-ups, Gordy Clutcher and others had moved on and left the sports arenas to a new generation of youth who wore their pants below their asses, listened to Color Me Badd and Boys II Men. Ugh. Was there any hope for the rain forests if kids were getting high before they could vote? While being stoned might make it easier to see that the emperor isn't wearing any clothes, it also tends to make you think that there is no point in doing anything. Like most things, it had its pros and cons.
“What do you care? You'll be leaving here soon,” said Bonigan from the Leary Field side of the fence. He was making tracks in the right field, pacing the warning track like an inmate.
“Remember all those games of basketball, Bullwhip? We played until the lights went off. Clutch would stay and shoot hoops in the dark. Sticky used to hit that hook shot of his and pretend he did it all the time. I hated playing with him. He never once paid when he lost. I'd give anything to play him again in Whiffle Ball.”
“Anything? Be careful what you wish for, Oggy.”
“Careful? I'm always careful but nothing changes. I'll be fifty years old and shitting in a plastic bag before the Sox win. Bullwhip, how can I strike out Ray Knight? Just tell me. You know.”
“Look around. The answer is right under that beak of yours. You look better with a mustache. You're too pale to shave.”
“All I see is the Central Little League field and Wynn's water fountain. I remember Wynn playing here ten years ago. Ten years. A decade. I played right there and was four feet tall. Now look at me. I'm walking to court wearing my father's business suit with no underwear, my hair in a dirty pony tail, about to talk my way out of pissing twenty-five hundred dollars into the Mill Pond. I used to play Little League. I was good. I could make back-handed catches like Carlton Fisk.”
Bonigan had followed, passing through fences and around snowy bleachers, on our way to the court house. We passed before a 20mm cannon secured to a concrete square next to a willow tree.
“In seventh and eighth grade I pretended I was a gunner on a battleship in Pearl Harbor defending Democracy by firing across the millpond at the hospital. Now what do I have to defend? A disgrace. America isn't worth my piss. We've got prisons in Cuba, bases in Iraq, Korea. The only things that America exports are our jobs and our army bases. Would I lift a finger to defend Taco Bell? Would I care if all the Pizza Huts vanished? Ha! I wouldn't get out of bed early if Martians landed! We had a golden goose and we kept it in a pen with ten thousand other geese and then crammed it in a Japanese truck and sent it to a slaughter house in Thailand where some guy from Nicaragua, some guy just trying to keep his shine box out of the mud, cut its head off and sent it back to us as a turkey. So now we've got MTV and a dead goose. Why should I lift a finger to defend that corpse? Why should I stand up and sing the national anthem for a place that doesn't exist? The Sox lost, Bullwhip. They lost and that means I get to do whatever I want. I want to drive Poncho around or piss up a flagpole then who can stop me? Are you gonna stop me? No? I didn't think so.”
“Don't forget where you come from, Oggy. Don't stick your shit out at me or else I'll belt whip you.”
Across the street to the west of the gun was the two story Bone Harbor District Court, positioned as though the gun was protecting it.
“When you're ready to stop punishing yourself, you'll know what to do,” said Bonigan mysteriously.
“Yeah, I'll go out to the Arcade and buy some fried dough, like a normal person. If only Dewey had been playing really shallow, you know, like I was saying, then he could have had time to field the ball that went through Buckner's legs and throw Knight out at the plate. Maybe all of this was Dewey's fault. Maybe he's the one to blame for me getting sued.”
Bonigan was gone and there was no more time to throw shit balloons. It was my name on the pink slip, not the 1986 Boston Red Sox. Their trial had already happened on October 25, 1986 and judgement had been found in favor of the Mets.
I entered the dreaded building, found the courtroom, and sat on the right side. The seats were conveniently divided into two sections so the defendants (me) could keep a neutral walkway between their accusers (Rachel).
The case already in progress sounded like a disagreement over rent. The tenant had made repairs and his assumption was that the expenses would cover the rent for a month. The landlord disagreed and was suing for the balance of the rent. The disputed amount was under a thousand dollars, a pittance, and I laughed at the pettiness of both parties. They both looked like they could afford the money while my whole financial egg sandwich was at stake, plus paychecks that I hadn't even earned yet, not to mention the humiliation and the sadness. These two nitwits should step aside and let the heavy swingers into the cage.
The judge looked like my seventh grade shop teacher and who didn't appear to be very concerned with the future of either of the parties. That might work in my favor and it might not.
The rent case went on and on until I felt like yelling, “I'll pay the damn rent. You guys get a life. Your problems kneel before my problems.”
The Robe didn't seem sympathetic to the plaintiff's grief, which was good. I was the defendant and the plaintiff had the responsibility of proving I was guilty. I only had to say the right thing so I did not sound guilty. In other words, I did not have to prove my innocence. I just had to think like Ferris Bueller.
The Robe thanked the parties and told them his decision would be forthcoming in the mail. That dashed my hopes of a tense five minutes while the jury deliberated and then a ritualistic handing of the judgement. “We find the defendant, Ogden Bleacher, Not Guilty of Reckless Endangerment.” Followed by a burst of applause and the pounding of gavel. Throngs of reporters would surround me on the steps outside.
“Mr. Bleacher! Question! How do you feel, Mr. Bleacher?”
“Vindicated. Affirmed. For the first time in my life, justice has been served. Now the Red Sox have a chance. I know Ray Knight will strike out.”
I pictured myself at a lectern with microphones.
“What do you plan to do with your freedom?”
“I plan on drawing more cartoons, master the three-sectional staff and nunchucks, watch Game Six, what any healthy twenty-one years old would do.”
“Yes, you are clearly touched by genius. Anyone can see that. Your cartoons are superb.”
“Thank you. It will only be a matter of time until they are considered groundbreaking work. They may even start a new era in the fine arts.”
“Question! Are the rumors true that you will be running for mayor?”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves, folks. Let's take this one step at a time. Thank you. That's all I have time for. Game Six awaits.”
Someone handed the judge a folder that I assumed was mine.
“I'll bring that bitch to her knees with my hammering cross- examination. I'll have her confessing to killing Kennedy,” I muttered to the rug.
A diffused light filtered in through four thin, vertical windows on the east wall. The seal of New Hampshire, an American Flag and something that started, “We the People...” were the only decorations.
“All Rise!”
The Bailiff with the gun was standing near the front of the room. I inhaled through my nose and stood up. My right knee popped so loud that the judge raised his bushy eyebrows. My lower back hurt. I was turning 21 soon, but I felt like a 21-year-old dog.
“There will be a five minute recess before the next case.”
The Robe stood, turned to his right and silently descended a few stairs before disappearing through a door. I sat down with a thud. Make the guilty sweat. Oldest trick in the book, I thought. I was sorry I hadn't had a chance--or a working car--to go get Erin in Vermont. His lies--er--testimony would have been critical to my argument. But I also like the idea of being alone against the world, fighting the good fight like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Who needed a wingman?
Two girls sat with Rachel near the opposite wall and were taking the opportunity to talk and giggle. I could almost hear them say, “So Calvin Schiraldi threw a pipe fast ball with two strikes and no balls. Can you believe it?”
Maybe, I thought, I could talk Rachel out of the whole case. You have to admit that I'm pretty persuasive when I want to be. I stood up, again with a loud popping in my right knee. Though I pulled at the coat sleeves of my father's coat, they remained about three inches too short for my arms. I walked slowly to where Rachel and her “team” were sitting. They stopped talking and looked at me with a mixture of amusement and hate, the same attitude they had had the night they crossed paths with Erin and me.
“Rachel,” I said cooly.
“Ogden,” Rachel responded with equal coolness.
“You still want to go through with this?”
“You're the only one who has something to lose. I've had to ride the bus to school for a month. Do you know how long I saved money so I wouldn't have to ride the bus to school?”
“Hey, hire a fahking orchestra and get them to play you a sad song. Life is tough. Look at Dewey and Marty Barrett. You think they didn't take a few knocks in their day. What do you want me to do?”
“Buy me a new car. How else am I going to get to California? I need that car to be an actress.”
“Sweetheart, you need a boob job and a chin to be an actress. A car is the least of your worries.”
“You're right,” she said after a mean scowl, “It's your problem now.”
I never chew my finger nails, considering it a filthy habit, but I chewed on my thumb nail to keep from executing a Su Lee (Ninja Neck Snap) move on Rachel.
“Listen, after this last trip I have about ten dollars in total savings. Of course my birthday is coming up so I'll probably get some money then, maybe another two hundred dollars, all of which I owe to other people who did not maliciously insult the Red Sox in my presence.”
“But they lost,” cried Rachel.
“They're winners and they can win. I'm a winner.”
“Then buy me a new car!”
NO! I haven't made twenty-five hundred dollars in my whole life. You might as well sue me for a million. It won't matter. I'm a bootblack. I'll never pay. Never.”
“At least you got to go on a trip. I got to drive my car for less than a week. Now I'll never go to California.”
I did not care to fill her in on the trials of the past month.
“Oh, somebody get me some tape because this girl is breaking my heart,” I said with a yawn. “Look. No one got hurt. Just drop it. Come on, I'll buy you breakfast at Dippy Donuts.”
“No way. I'm not going anywhere with you. Freak! I asked around about you and there wasn't one person in town who didn't think you were a total loser. I heard you never changed your pants in school. You smelled bad. You did a lip-synch of a Run DMC song in high school.”
“It was Meatloaf. I did the Run DMC performance in Junior High School. Get your facts straight.”
The least I ask for when being insulted is that the details are as I remembered them. Otherwise, we are just wasting time. Rachel failed to correct herself and plodded on with her rot.
“You sat the bench in high school baseball. And the Red Sox suck!”
“Shut your mouth, harlot!”
“Everyone in Bone Harbor thinks you're a loser. You came here alone because you don't have any friends. Why don't you just get back in your car and go back to Mexico. And take that suit with you. It is so Seventies. You look like a complete freak.”
One of the girls next to her looked at me.
“Loser,” she said.
I pointed at them like I had pointed at them the night of the accident.
“I am well liked. People see me and they know who I am.”
“That's because you painted your name on your car door. Idiot!”
“No. I played right field like Dewey. I was a catcher like Fisk. I was a hero until the Sox lost. No one thinks I'm a freak. I kissed Rose McCorley on the lips.”
“Why would Sticky lie?” she asked dismissively. “He says he's known you since first grade and you were a complete zero your whole life. Now you are going to pay.”
My jaw was flapping at this revelation. Another shiv had been stuck in my liver by yet another Brutus. Bone Harbor was filled with these disloyalists.
“Sticky told you these lies? And you believed him? You silly, silly bitch. Nixon had a saying: Trust a Chinaman before a Russian, trust a Russian before a snake but never, under any circumstances, trust a Greek. And Nixon would know a thing or two about trust. He ran with the big dogs.”
“Yeah, well, Sticky is supposed to be here. He agreed to testify against you.”
“Against me? That piece of shit. That one-legged Greek Judas. That sissy bitch. All he does is talk shit about me. I'll kill him.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn't have trusted him enough to tell him the truth about what happened that night.”
“The only thing I told him was that his mother is a fat whore.”
“We'll find out when he gets here. You might as well start writing that check right now. My last name is spelled D-E-V ...”
“Whatever. And my last name is spelled F-U-C-K Y-O-U. See? Don't you get it? Do you got shit in your ears? I don't have the money. Read my lips: No New Taxes. I can't pay you. Even if I could, I wouldn't because you don't have a case. No one will believe Sticky. No one will believe you. What sad evidence do you have? Let me see what you've got there.”
Rachel held up a police report. For the first time I was able to read the official word on what happened that night. I mumbled as I read the report out loud as an attempt to dismiss its validity.
“Let me see this, 'Two white males...one six foot tall bearded, long hair...unkempt' Unkempt my ass...'one male five nine short hair, jeans too short... 'Oggy' painted on side of car...Gillies...Store 24...High Speed chase...harassment and recklessness...great fear...impact at Pleasant Street...Blah, blah, blah...vehicle is unsalvageable...whereabouts unknown...blah, blah...investigation continues.' This ain't shit.”
I examined a diagram of a car drawn diagonally across a street. Stapled to this report was the repair invoice that I had seen two months earlier when Rachel hunted me down at my house, sending my world out of orbit. There were also some Polaroid pictures of the damage to her car. It was Falco 3 of cars.
“The police said I did two total spins before I hit the telephone pole.”
“And that is somehow my fault?”
“Yes. Cristo says you admitted you caused it.”
“I didn't admit anything to that cheap, back-stabbing, shit-talking, Greek Judas blackboot. He's been trying to bust my shine box since I've known him.”
“He says he taped it.”
Flashing back to my drunken confession to Cristo I noticed some suspicious behavior, even for a Greek. He had prodded me though I was blind with drink. I recalled how a moment before I told him about that night he reached to his side and clicked something I thought was a remote control or a lighter. I had been too drunk to stop myself.
“That's right,” Rachel hissed as she saw my fear. “Now you're dead.”
“We'll see,” I said with as much confidence as I could fake, then I turned and tripped on a row of chairs giving the Plaintiffs something to laugh at again..
“All Rise! The Honorable Judge Thompson presiding.”
My armpits started to drip sweat onto my father's shirt. If I hadn't been wearing a coat I believe the Bailiff would have called the paramedics. A balloon of gas was inflating in my lower stomach cavity. Though I believe I respond to crisis as well as anyone, there is a moment or two before the rubber meets the road when I am useless. This was such a moment.
“Case #844921 Divine vs Bleacher. Please come forward.”
I glared at Rachel along the way. She was looking for Cristo in the courtroom, but I decided if I saw him I would hit him in the stomach, pay him back for his attack on my milk bowl.
Judge Thompson was studying the paperwork. I could only imagine what it said about me.
Thanks to a court transript I later purchasedm I can say that the following is what took place in the courtroom B of the Bone Harbor District Court in Bone Harbor New Hampshire at 11:45 AM on the morning of January 10th 1992.
“Rachel Divine?”
“Yes?”
“You are the Plaintiff in this case?”
“Correct.”
“Odin Bleacher?”
“My Name is Ogden Bleacher. Ogden. She spelled my name wrong. Does that mean I win?”
“No. Ms. Divine, is this the man you intended to bring to trial?”
“Yes, your honor. I just didn't. I mean, I wrote Ogden on there. I don't know what happened. I wrote Ogden. That man over there is the one who almost killed me.”
“We'll get to that. Now...”
“I didn't do anything. She...”
“Mr. Bleacher, you will have your turn in a moment.”
“But...”
“One Moment! Would it be possible to keep your laughter to a minimum?”
I was laughing because I suddenly found the whole situation comical. We were mice facing off over a piece of cheese. It was absurd. No matter what decision was reached here I still wouldn't pay Rachel any money. Everyone was acting so serious and yet nothing would change. Who wouldn't laugh?
We went through the whole swearing in thing. I felt like Oliver North. My objection to using the word 'God' was ignored. In a tribute to Xanadu, I asked to substitute 'Zeus' but was ignored again. The Robe then asked Rachel to begin. She tried to stall because her precious informant wasn't here.
“There was supposed to be someone else here. Can we wait for him?”
“No, we can not. Please begin.”
She thumbed some notes she had written and then went for my throat.
“Well, he attacked me with his car and made me hit a telephone pole. We almost died. He attacked me. The car hit a pole. I was crying and I hurt my hand. He owes me money for my car. Jessica thinks so too. They followed us and almost killed us. That's it.”
I felt great relief upon learning she appeared to be mildly retarded. There was no way I could lose.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
Ha. The Karate Kid was 'a little nervous' when he faced off for the Valley Karate Championships. Rachel was shitting the proverbial kitten and I was polishing my shine box. The Robe was trying to help and I made a note in my book, “Mistrial based on Judge? Sits on V. T. and sentences. Slaughter the weak! R. In tears. Time to rock!”
“Could you just slow down and tell me what happened in your own words? And instead of pointing at Mr. Bleacher, could you state his name? And Mr. Bleacher, I could do without the theatrics. You are not on television. Making faces and throwing pieces of paper at the Plaintiff are not acceptable. Understood? Good. Just take your time Ms. Divine.”
I raised my hand.
“Your, Honor? Sir, Can I say something here in my own defense?”
“You will have an opportunity in a moment, Mr. Bleacher. Please be seated. Please. Thank You.”
“Well, Oggy was at Gillies when we got there. Jessie, Trish and Katie were at Gillies with me. They saw it.”
“Is Katie the person you were expecting to come?”
“No, your honor. Cristo was supposed to be here. Katie is in the Navy and couldn't make it.”
“I object! Your honor, May I speak? I move to have this case dismissed in the interest of Justice.”
“Motion denied.”
I'd remembered that line from an episode of Night Court. It had been denied then too.
“So we went into Gillies and two men, Erin and Ogden were sitting in there and they were drunk and laughing.”
These were monstrous lies and I said as much. You can't just stand by and let your reputation take a couple below the belt.
“Mr. Bleacher. You will have an opportunity to speak. Go on.”
“They were drinking and drunk and they kept laughing at us. Look, Ogden's probably drunk right now. Stop looking at me!”
“This is typical. I didn't do anything to them. I was minding my own business, buffing my shoes, and this wench started in on me deal.”
“I am looking at a police report,” said the Robe with restraint, “How did you go from Gillies to a telephone pole?”
“See, that is why they are freaks. Can I say that? We were going to drop Katie off at the airport in Boston, so we were getting coffee at Gillies. Ogden followed us in his car for no reason at all.”
“And you know it was Mr. Bleacher?”
“His car has 'Oggy' painted on the side of it with an arrow pointing at the driver. It was parked next to Gillies. I remember making fun of it when we walked in. Who would paint their name on their car? Then I watched it chase us. See what freaks they are?”
My “freak” limit had nearly been reached. Call me anything you want but do not call me it repeatedly. Vary your insults. Be above average. In many religions, you only live once.
“Go on.”
“So, we went to Store 24 and they were hiding behind a sign across the street. We could see them laughing. So we called the police.”
This was an interesting twist. While Erin and I had been laughing and singing, the hairspray sisters had been reporting our actions to the police. Every other day of the year I get monitored like Al Capone. I wondered why the Law and I had not gone mano a mano on the one night it might have done them some good. The Robe wondered the same thing. If Rachel had called the police then why had the deal gone done as it did?
“No. See, we left before the police got there. We had to get Katie to the Airport. As soon as we got on the road again, Ogden started to chase us. We tried to get away, but they were so close. He was flashing his high beams and honking his horn. He was driving eighty miles an hour.
“Poncho doesn't even go eighty,” I blurted out.
“It does too. He was right behind my car. I couldn't even see his headlights and I tried to get away so we just kept going faster.”
“Did you own the car?”
“I bought it four days earlier for 5000 dollars.”
Who'd have thought that of the two cars plugging around the streets of Bone Harbor in December that mine would be the one with its hat still in the ring? It just goes to show you that you have to play all nine innings.
“So where did the accident take place?”
“By the Moose Lodge. At the corner of Pleasant and Court. They were tailgating us so close that we didn't want to slow down. When we turned the corner we were going too fast and there was ice and Katie lost control of the car. We spun around and hit the telephone pole. He made us hit the pole. We were trying to get to the police station.”
I'd heard this story so many times before that I could recite it myself. In three hundred years, 11th grade teachers will probably tell their students to memorize it like Chaucer. Just watch.
“Did Mr. Bleacher's car ever come in contact with your car?”
A swell detail to ask, I thought. I weighed in with a superior “Indeed.”
“Not that I remember. But it was so close. It was the same thing. He chased us.”
“How close?”
“Three or four inches.”
“And you were traveling at eighty miles an hour?”
“Maybe faster.”
This was impossible. Poncho had never reached speeds above forty. If I hadn't tried to abduct Lacy I could have used her as a witness to the fact that Poncho leaned toward the “slow and steady” camp of cars.
“Is that how you remember it Jessica?”
Jessica was one of the wench brigade who had come to my house. I recognized her from that night as the one who had taunted Erin and me about looking like hobos.
“They were drunk and they rammed us.”
This was crazy. If their story was true then Erin and I were out one night drinking beer and taking acid when four innocent girls happened past. We then decided to chase said girls and as an afterthought decided to ram their car off the road and into a telephone pole. Then we fled to drink more. Sure, and then I went home to feed the sex slave in my basement. Gadzooks! It was like a scene from Silkwood, except for one thing: almost none of it was true.
“They hit your car?”
I could see the Robe was concentrating on this one point and wished I knew more about Law. I was sure that a real lawyer who have some clever question that would lead to her flapping her lips like a fish, but I didn't know what it was.
“It was only because Katie kept going faster that they didn't hit us. They pushed us into that telephone pole. I could see their faces when they drove past. They were still laughing. I got a bruise on my hip but it's gone now.”
“So they didn't come into contact your vehicle?”
“No. Only 'cause of Katie.”
The Robe made a note and I felt the tide turning. I'm pretty sure the bible has a quote about the meek and how, if you aren't careful, they'll beat you down. This was such a moment.
“Do you have anything to add Trisha.”
Trisha was one of the Hags who I'd only seen at Gillies. I couldn't remember if she had made any derogatory remarks about the Red Sox or Poncho.
“No, that is it. They chased us and we hit the telephone pole. We wouldn't have hit it if they weren't chasing us.”
The Robe made another note and asked if there was anything, any detail they might like to add.
“Yeah,” said Rachel. “Cristo has a recording of Ogden admitting he chased us and made us crash. If he shows up that is what he would tell you. Ogden admits everything.”
“Until then, is there anything you have to add?”
“Ogden looked like a lanky mountain man with his beard and hair. You can tell he just shaved because of how pale he is. He looked crazy and his friend looked like a skin head. We were afraid, your honor.”
I resented this remark as an attack on my Nordic blood. My people are historically fair-skinned and light of the carriage, better to blend into the arctic tundra and hunt fox and seal.
“They were drunk. It was totally obvious,” a Neanderthal added.
Obvious? No, Don Baylor obviously should have pinch hit for Calvin Schiraldi in the top of the tenth inning. Bob Stanley obviously should have pitched the bottom of the tenth inning. I was not 'obviously' drunk.
“Thank you. You may be seated. Now, Mr. Bleacher? You have an opportunity to speak.”
This was the moment I'd been waiting for. I had everyone's attention, an audience I could entreat. Here was my opportunity for justice.
“This is a clear case of statutory abuse,” I said with confidence.
“Go on,” said the Robe, obviously impressed.
“Two things: Neither Erin nor I were drunk that night. I don't even drink.”
I felt this was close enough to the truth to let slide. As I've maintained all along, alcohol is poison.
“Secondly, Poncho, my car, can't go faster than fifty miles an hour. I just drove it around the country and I swear it only goes fifty.”
Around the country or around the region: What was the difference?
“Neither Smokey nor the Bandit could control Poncho at sixty miles an hour. It would most certainly disintegrate faster than the Space Shuttle Challenger if I pushed it up to eighty. No offense.”
Several looks of shock made me examine my papers for a diversion. As I tried to compose myself I muttered, “Stick to the topic. Stick to the topic.” Then I brought out the big guns.
“I'd like to submit Exhibit A, a historical map of Bone Harbor.”
I started toward the Robe with the paper equivalent of the smoking gun. The bailiff approached me and I thought I was going to have to execute a Lun Zim Roundhouse Ninja kick to defend myself, but he only wanted the map.
“You may not approach the bench. Hand it to the Bailiff. “
I did as I was told and pressed on, eyeing the bailiff for any more signs of aggression.. I'm a passive man, but I can be pushed to swift action. I pressed on.
“You will see a detailed map of all the streets we were on that night. I recently drove the distance and it was less than two miles total. Rachel makes it sound like I followed them for hours like a psycho. They flatter themselves. I would sooner follow an injured raccoon and watch it die under a bridge. Don't believe their lies.”
“Very well. Why don't you tell the truth then?” said the Robe.
The truth? What truth did I know? George Michael's music was better after he split from Wham! That's true. I'm embarrassed to say I like Air Supply. The movie Top Gun was sort of shallow and glorified Military conflicts. I think Molly Ringwald's character in Pretty in Pink was right for not dating 'Ducky', her childhood friend/admirer. Ducky was two years from wearing dresses and garter belts at a cross-dressers ball. Why throw away your senior year on a powder puff? Prince's character, The Kid, in Purple Rain was an unredeemable asshole and Apollonia needed serious help for crying during the title song. She bought him a nice guitar and ten seconds later he punched her in the head. Serious truth! Xanadu is a real pip of a movie after two or three bong hits. Footloose is about a million times better than Flashdance. Truth, yes, but not the truth I wanted to talk about.
“You want truth?” I said. “You can't handle the truth.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said the bench.
“Dwight Evans made me a promise,” I began.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This man,” I said producing the '86 team photo. “This man made me a promise over ten years ago that the Red Sox would win the World Series. Dewey promised me. He gave me this hat.” I picked up the hat the bailiff had made me take off when I walked in the room “He gave me this hat and he said that the Sox would win. In 1986 they came one strike away from winning. Here!”
I passed the team photo to the bailiff who relayed it to the judge. Though I hadn't been apart from that photo in six years, I felt that now was the time for sacrifice. The bench studied the photo and the map. Together the two documents summarized my entire life.
“Dwight Evans did not make an error in Game Six?”
“Correct. He blocked a hard ground ball and Knight took an extra base. He never shoul have been charged with an error.”
The bench appeared to ponder this bomb before dropping a bomb himself.
“What does this have to do with Rachel's accident?”
“Simpleton! What does it have to do with her accident? Your imminence, haven't you been paying any attention? Look around! It has everything to do with the accident.”
“I don't think so, Mr. Bleacher.”
“Then that is where you betray your ignorance. Those girls tested me. They questioned my loyalty to the Sox. They made remarks about the Red Sox that I can not repeat here. They made remarks about the talent and reputation of the Red Sox. I had to defend them.”
“But the accident? The telephone pole?”
“Yes! Dewey and Buckner and Schiraldi and Stanley caused the original accident. That tool Ray Knight caused the accident. The Sox lost and broke their promise. Now my job is to make everything right. See? The Plaintiff got in my way. She mistreated my shine box. I'm not just a bootblack, your honor. I'm a winner. I played Whiffle ball with Clutch and I was good. Look on your map. You can see I've listed all the games we played during the summer that JoJo moved to Plumsook. You can see how well I did against Clutch. See?”
“I see a very disorganized map, Mr. Bleacher. Whiffle ball is not on our agenda today. What do you have to add to the case before us? You do understand your role here?”
“But I beat Clutch. I was a backup catcher on the 1988 BHHS baseball team and we won the State Championship. We were winners. We won. Now I'm trying to get this guy,” I said as I hysterically punched Calvin Schiraldi's area of the photo, “to strike out Ray Knight. Because he has to throw a curveball in the dirt.”
The Robe pushed my map away from him with unnecessary distaste.
“If you have nothing further to add...I will find for the plaintiff. This isn't a game, Mr. Bleacher. I don't know where you think you are, but...”
“Me? Where am I? I'm in hell!”
Just then the back door opened up and I heard, “Is it over? Am I too late?”
I turned around, prepared to attack Cristo, but saw Erin standing in the aisle in his military cadet uniform.
“Kodiak. Help! They've gone crazy,” I said.
“Your honor. My name is Erin McCorley and I was the driver of Mr. Bleacher's car the night Rachel hit the telephone pole. I take responsibility.”
In the following shuffle of papers and general gasps Erin came up beside me and shook my hand.
“Kodiak, they've lost their minds. I told them all about Game Six and they didn't even care. They laughed at me. This is still America, right?”
“Listen, Oggy. I can't let you take the shit for this. I drove, I'll go down.”
You didn't think I actually chased a car full of girls through the night, did you? You thought I would chase a car, nearly hit them and then watch them crash into a telephone pole and drive off? Seriously? After all we've been through, that is what you think of me? I'm truly disappointed.
“I thought I could talk them out of it,” I told Erin. “I had them right on the ropes, but I guess I have to work on my closing game. Damn these judges are tricky.”
“So, Mr. McCorley, you admit you were driving.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Erin, my new hero.
“And you chased this girl through the streets, past the bridge where,” the Robe paused as he consulted my map, “Gordy Clutcher got hit by a car on his bike?”
“Yes. The overpass by the bike shop.”
The Robe nodded grimly. Erin was in the thick of it now.
“And you waited for them near the store that was once a baseball card shop where Mr. Bleacher and someone named Flash bought traded series with Cal Ripken's Rookie card? Am I reading this correctly?”
I cheered him on. Damn fine pair of eyes on the old horse.
“Yes,” said Erin with his chin lowering with each aff. ans. “Just past the bridge.”
“And you chased them past the store that was once Pic n Pay, and through the part of town where you could fly a kite ten years ago and then down Middle Street past the house--am I reading this right?--where Flash's father moved when his parent's got divorced?”
“Yeah, over by the school with the basketball court,” said Erin. My boy understood truth.
“The basketball courts where Mr. Bleacher was beaten my Stretch. a decade ago?”
“I almost beat him,” I offered in my defense, “but he had three inches on me. Tall kid.”
“That's fine,” said the Robe as he traced our route over my map. “Then you followed the Plaintiff down Middle Street, past the corner where Bugsy Kindle died on his Motorcycle and past your house, where Mr. Bleacher was given a sock?”
“I don't know if she gave him that sock, but that's where we drove.”
I felt I should allow the Robe to proceed with his inquiry. Why divert the argument to a meaningless tangent about who gave what to whom? As soon as I could find it in my room, I would have the sock. That was the important point.
“Then you drove past the store that once had a Galaga arcade game?”
“We used to go there in the summer after Junior High. Oggy had the high score for two years.”
“I was real good,” I added proudly.
“Then, “ said the Robe without a word of congratulations, “you followed the Plaintiff through the intersection where Mr. Bleacher once saw Chrissy Jenkins running in tight spandex?”
“Miller and Middle. Yes. Oggy told me about that. She was a babe.”
“The Van Halen of babes, your honor,” I said to put things in perspective for the man. You know how some generations don't quite understand Youthspeak. That is actually the whole point of the Youth songs, but you already knew that. The bird kept up with his humorless delivery.
“Then you turned right at the old Haymarket location and followed the Plaintiff down Court Street, past the Fire Station where Mr. Bleacher went on a field trip in 1981, and past the Unitarian Church where Mr. Bleacher and Flash ate all the cookies in the charity bake sale.”
“That's right. It was there that we lost sight of Rachel.”
“Yes. I remember,” I said, enthusiastically returning from my nostalgic tour around Bone Harbor. The trip/chase, I now saw, had actually taken me past some of the most treasured points of interest in my town. If only Rachel had chosen to go down Richards Avenue and past the Little League Field then I would have considered the tour perfect. “That was where I managed to convince Kodiak to stop following her. She went around the corner down Pleasant Street and then when we turned the corner she was in the middle of the road making a U-turn.”
“How could you think a collision that rendered a car inoperable was a U-turn?”
A tender question, but one I had a good answer for since I'd been paying close attention to some of the details volleyed back and forth during the proceedings.
“Because their right front end hit the pole and we were nearest their left rear corner when we passed them. See? If I had known they had hit the pole I would have asked Kodiak to stop. Obviously. The fact that I drove by them is proof that I was just playing around. I thought that was what they wanted.”
“Playing around? You were a stranger you followed them for nearly two miles. How did you think that was playing?”
“Because they seemed to be enjoying it.”
“How?”
“They gave us the finger.”
“They made obscene gestures through the window?”
“Yeah. They looked like they were having fun.”
“I was crying,” said Rachel piteously.
“Its true,” said one of the other harpies. “We were all scared. We just wanted to get away. He was creepy. It was three in the morning.”
“Well, why did you taunt me at Gillies? Why did you question Dewey's ability?”
“We didn't taunt you. What are you talking about? You are totally lying about that.”
I was sure that someone had taunted me about Dewey and since they were the only other ones I saw that night...
“Well I was nowhere near you when you hit that pole. Katie should have slowed down.”
“You looked crazy that night and you look crazy right now. You look like a pimp.”
“Wann be my ho?”
Tensions ran high, I admit. Normally I can maintain a Buddhist-like equanimity, but the sterile environs had stiffened the fur.
“Didn't you think these girls were terrified? Mr. Bleacher? Hello?”
I was thinking about who had mocked the Red Sox that night? Was it Rachel or someone else?
“We were just kidding. Didn't I explain about Dewey's promise? Dewey played right field for the Red Sox. He robbed Joe Morgan of a home run in the '75 Series. He's a winner.”
“They didn't know that you were kidding. Mr. Bleacher, what did you expect them to think?”
“But they said that the Sox suck. They made fun of my big “Red Sox Rule” banner I painted on Poncho. I couldn't allow that, not after all the abuse I've taken for six years, not after giving my whole life to seeing that strike blow past Ray Knight.”
“We didn't say anything. He's crazy. He talks to himself. Everyone knows he's crazy.”
“It wasn't my fault. Buckner didn't get down on the ball. He had to block it with his chest.”
“Mr. Bleacher?”
“Schiraldi threw an 0-2 fastball over the plate. Don Baylor had a bat in his hand. He was supposed to pinch hit. He...”
My voice trailed off because the Red Sox had taken the blame for too many things. Was I a fan or a judge?
“We never hit them,” I said weakly. “We didn't do anything illegal. Kodiak, tell him.”
The Robe put his hand up to stop Erin from speaking.
“Yes, you did, Mr. Bleacher, Mr. McCorley. Chasing a car at high speeds through a residential district is illegal. It is illegal to speed. It is illegal to tailgate. It is illegal to harass another driver. It is illegal to honk for the purpose to upset. It is illegal to flash your high beams to distract another driver. You admit to breaking five laws in an event that ended in a high-speed collision with a telephone pole. Now, since this is not a criminal trial I can not impose a fine for those crimes, but I can make a decision regarding your responsibility for the accident. You are culpable, sir.”
The Bomb had dropped and we were just waiting to see which way the wind was blowing.
“Now, Ms. Divine, you claimed Mr. Bleacher was driving.”
“I thought he was. His name is right on the driver's door.”
“You swore that Mr. Bleacher was driving.”
“Well, I guess he wasn't. But it was Ogden's car. I know that for sure. He's the asshole who hit me.
“You're the whore who crashed!” I snapped off.
“All I know is that Ms. Divine's car struck a pole. Mr. Bleacher's car was in the vicinity of the accident. Mr. McCorley may have been driving. This leads me to wonder whether or not Ms. Divine was actually driving her car. Were you?
“Well...” began Rachel sheepishly, “my friend Kate was driving, but I was right there when it all happened. I was lying before but now I'm telling the truth.
“Where is Kate now?”
“She's in the Navy. I asked her to come.”
“So your friend was driving your new car? Mr. Bleacher? Are you listening Mr. Bleacher?”
As a last resort I said, “I plead the Fifth. I don't want to incriminate myself. I know my rights.
“Too late. Why did you admit to driving the car when Mr. McCorley was the one driving?
“Because Erin had to go back to school. Bullwhip told me it would be a good song for the fires. I needed another song.”
“You were under oath. Were you aware of this?
“Sure. Why not?”
“Ms. Divine? You realize you were also misrepresenting the truth when you claimed to know who was driving Mr. Bleacher's car.”
“I didn't know. I don't have x-ray vision. I figured Ogden was driving since he was such an asshole.”
“Hey, Bite me!”
“Show me where!”
I was a little angry we didn't force her off the road. It's like Reagan said, “If you're going to get accused of something then you might as well do it.” We could have waited a little longer until she was crossing the mill pond bridge so we could run her into the water. Three dead girls equals one less visit to the small claims court.
“Don't make this any worse, Oggy,” said Erin, to which I responded that it couldn't get much worse.
“Is Ray Knight gonna hit a three-run home run? Would that be worse? They still win the game, Kodiak.”
“But they can still find against you, Oggy. I don't want you to lose everything.”
It takes me a while to get all the pieces in place, but when a solution jumps up at me like the one that just popped a cap in my head, I jump on it.
“Your honor? Excuse me? How about I just give her my car. The thing may not go too fast but it's reliable.”
If she agreed then not only would I stop all this silliness, but I could get rid of the one thing that had cursed me since I got it. If there's one thing about Judges I like it's that they grasp the deal without the usual back and forth.
“You propose giving her your car in lieu of payment?” The Robe seemed happy to have an alternative to sorting this out on paper and, perhaps, seeing my face another time.
“It's all I have. I can just give her Poncho. It's that or the loser bus.”
“But I want my car back,” whined the chiseler. “I want him to buy my car back.” She was pleading with her friends and the Robe.
I turned a heartless eye on her and said, “Rachel, I will never buy you another car. I'll move to Africa before I buy you a car. I'll join the circus and change my name first. But I will give you Poncho and call it even. Drop the case on me, don't sue Erin, take Poncho, and let's end this. Do the right thing, girl.”
She sneered at me and turned to the bench.
“Can't you make him buy me a new car? His car has his name on the door.”
“I'll paint it,” I entered into the record. “I'll paint Poncho and give it to you. It's a real pip of a car. I just drove it around the country. Gets great gas mileage. Comfortable. Cruise control. Power Steering. It took me through a dozen states, over the Rocky Mountains, across the desert and into Mexico and Canada. Almost four thousand miles of good driving.”
Of course, the fact that I had driven hardly four hundred miles and that the transmission was stuck and that the windshield was broken and many other problems were best kept secret. Why muddle up the transaction? After all, I was selling her a car for money that was still mine. On top of it all, I was a little sad I never made it out of Connecticut; my trip sounded pretty fun.
“Take it, Rachel,” said one of her hens.
“I don't want it. It probably smells.”
“It's better than nothing. Take it and sell it.”
Rachel gave in and swallowed. “OK. I'll take it, your honor. If he paints it, I'll take his car.”
“And you agree not to sue Erin? He didn't mean for you to hit that telephone pole. He's sorry.”
She nodded the melon like a good girl.
“Yeah. I agree not to sue Erin.”
“It's your car,” whispered my accomplice. “I never asked you to take the blame.”
“Poncho,” I whispered into Erin's ear, “is the biggest piece of shit that ever rolled on four wheels.” Then I winked as the gavel came down.
I rolled around for five hours imagining what I would say to the judge in the morning. My long speech quoted the Constitution and a focused on a man's right to travel. A shorter speech outlined various criminal allegations against President Bush and former President Reagan, arguing against the hypocrisy of my having to be judged while genocidal monsters were free to play golf and smuggle weapons. My least favorite speech involved asking for the court's mercy and ended with “If my crimes must be punished then I accept my punishment in the name of all political prisoners.” None of these contingencies had much hope of an acquittal, so I tossed on my Star Wars sheets as sleet tapped on the windows. What I needed to help me go to sleep was my sock, but I couldn't find it. In fact, various things in my room, from my throwing stars to my arcade game high score list were MIA. I assumed it had been my father and made a note to berate him as soon as the court case was over. “D-Question authority, priv. Issues. Reimburse?”
Nothing, not even putting Billy Squier's 1982 Emotions in Motion album on repeat, could postpone the morning. I finally had to get up and when I went into the bathroom to scrub my face I took a long look in the mirror and didn't find much to put on the back of my baseball card. My highlights were most people's embarrassing mistakes. My career had been spent mostly in the minor leagues. My stats were erratic. Even I would've traded me. My mustache had curled under my lip and into my mouth. Hairs would catch between my teeth inadvertently when I ate. My beard was growing like a plant toward the sun. I looked like a kid that The Addams Family was too embarrassed to allow out of the basement. If I walked into the courtroom looking like Grizzly Adams' pet wolf--if security would even let me get that far--the judge would have no option except find me guilty, award 2500 of the best to Rachel, and give me a stern warning. My cotton patch, in short, was toast.
So I shredded my chin to ribbons scraping the beard off. Pigs bleed less when they are hung upside down on a hook and stabbed in the throat. The bathroom looked like a suicide scene. All that was missing was “Die Ray Knight! Die!” written in blood on the mirror. But why should I give people the satisfaction of going to my funeral and nodding sadly, mumbling their condolences, donating twenty dollars to the Central Little League fund? Why should I give them the chance to say they were right about me, that I was really crazy and why, oh why, couldn't they have done something sooner? No. I'll be the one at their funerals with my Red Sox 1986 World Champions banner. I'll be the one laughing.
The hair was dispatched with an elastic band into a single clump that I tucked under my Sox cap. With all the fur gone and my hair behind my head, I looked like I had in 1986, big ears and red face, brown eyes staring straight through the glass.
“Ready for your big day? Ogden?”
My father was walking down the hall and had probably assumed I was still in bed, where I belonged. This was two times in under a week that I had arisen before noon, a dark trend.
“Uuh,” I groaned from the bathroom as I blotted my face.
“What happened in here? You filet a steak? Oh, you shaved. Did you use shaving cream?”
“Resources,” I grumbled. “Resources are frittered away on gadgets and doodads. Must I remind you of this every day?”
“Relax. A little shaving cream isn't going to destroy the ozone layer.”
This was precisely the attitude that converted the Central American rain forest into hamburger farms.
“Well, it won't matter after today. I'm going to show the world what I can do. I bet the judge recommends I go to Law school. Maybe he'll make me an honorary barrister based on my keen observations and insurmountable arguments. Lady justice will weep tears of joy.”
“Alright, Matlock. Could I use the toilet?”
While my father was in the bathroom, I went and picked out a three-piece suit from his closet. It fit snugly but not unfashionably. The low-heeled shoes I found were not my size, but since I thought my cloth moccasins would clash with the outfit, I would have to make do.
“You look like a pimp,” said my father when he saw me.
“A pimp who is going to win the case of a lifetime.”
“Well, good luck, Perry Mason.”
“Dad. My rhetoric will be sublime. They should charge admission. Justice will be served “
“That would be a first.”
Then he was gone and I went over the map I had drawn of Downtown Bone Harbor. I thought visual aids would benefit my argument. I had marked JJ Newberrys and Gillies and Justin's apartment and the Unitarian Church near the scene of the accident. I had been able to draw the map along with street names purely from memory, and as I admired my work I realized that, other than Fenway Park, downtown Bone Harbor, and the Bone Harbor High School, I couldn't draw anything as accurately. Sure, I had The Gap marked as JJ Newberrys and the Dance Studio across from Gillies was identified as the thrift store that closed in 1987 and the parking garage was still labeled “Sand lot”, but that was how I remembered the landmarks. The Whiffle Ball courts next to the JFK Center could be listed no other way. Near Leary Field I had written, “Gordy Clutcher hit a home run here in June 28th, 1987.” And near the Jones Ave. dump, a location that had no relevance in the case, I had marked out all the secret locations we had hidden during our Capture The Flag games and also the location of Ogden's Point and the original camping spot where Erin and I nearly froze to death. In the South Street Cemetery I had written “Mack Wynter is buried in here somewhere.” Also listed were the bridge near Prescott Park where I had jumped into the river with Kurt and JoJo the summer before JoJo moved to Plumsook, the football field where Squidly had dropped so many passes, Fort Stark, the Bowl-o-Rama, Darcy's house, Kurt's old house, even a concrete nook where I had hidden a quarter in 1983 and periodically went back to check on it. It was all here. Everything I could remember about Bone Harbor had been marked and indexed and explained with a bubble of scribbles. If anything could help my case by demonstrating how clear headed, socially conscious, and committed to my town I was, the map was it. Tom Sawyer, I thought, would have given an approving nod to the map and even Holden Caulfield might've considered it authentic and not “Phony”. I tucked it under my arm, grabbed a banana, and scooted out the door.
The temperature was around fifty, which was good because the dress pants were extremely breezy without underwear. I walked between Leary field and the basketball courts, both empty on a school day morning in mid-January. The committed kids, kids who would skip school to practice lay-ups, Gordy Clutcher and others had moved on and left the sports arenas to a new generation of youth who wore their pants below their asses, listened to Color Me Badd and Boys II Men. Ugh. Was there any hope for the rain forests if kids were getting high before they could vote? While being stoned might make it easier to see that the emperor isn't wearing any clothes, it also tends to make you think that there is no point in doing anything. Like most things, it had its pros and cons.
“What do you care? You'll be leaving here soon,” said Bonigan from the Leary Field side of the fence. He was making tracks in the right field, pacing the warning track like an inmate.
“Remember all those games of basketball, Bullwhip? We played until the lights went off. Clutch would stay and shoot hoops in the dark. Sticky used to hit that hook shot of his and pretend he did it all the time. I hated playing with him. He never once paid when he lost. I'd give anything to play him again in Whiffle Ball.”
“Anything? Be careful what you wish for, Oggy.”
“Careful? I'm always careful but nothing changes. I'll be fifty years old and shitting in a plastic bag before the Sox win. Bullwhip, how can I strike out Ray Knight? Just tell me. You know.”
“Look around. The answer is right under that beak of yours. You look better with a mustache. You're too pale to shave.”
“All I see is the Central Little League field and Wynn's water fountain. I remember Wynn playing here ten years ago. Ten years. A decade. I played right there and was four feet tall. Now look at me. I'm walking to court wearing my father's business suit with no underwear, my hair in a dirty pony tail, about to talk my way out of pissing twenty-five hundred dollars into the Mill Pond. I used to play Little League. I was good. I could make back-handed catches like Carlton Fisk.”
Bonigan had followed, passing through fences and around snowy bleachers, on our way to the court house. We passed before a 20mm cannon secured to a concrete square next to a willow tree.
“In seventh and eighth grade I pretended I was a gunner on a battleship in Pearl Harbor defending Democracy by firing across the millpond at the hospital. Now what do I have to defend? A disgrace. America isn't worth my piss. We've got prisons in Cuba, bases in Iraq, Korea. The only things that America exports are our jobs and our army bases. Would I lift a finger to defend Taco Bell? Would I care if all the Pizza Huts vanished? Ha! I wouldn't get out of bed early if Martians landed! We had a golden goose and we kept it in a pen with ten thousand other geese and then crammed it in a Japanese truck and sent it to a slaughter house in Thailand where some guy from Nicaragua, some guy just trying to keep his shine box out of the mud, cut its head off and sent it back to us as a turkey. So now we've got MTV and a dead goose. Why should I lift a finger to defend that corpse? Why should I stand up and sing the national anthem for a place that doesn't exist? The Sox lost, Bullwhip. They lost and that means I get to do whatever I want. I want to drive Poncho around or piss up a flagpole then who can stop me? Are you gonna stop me? No? I didn't think so.”
“Don't forget where you come from, Oggy. Don't stick your shit out at me or else I'll belt whip you.”
Across the street to the west of the gun was the two story Bone Harbor District Court, positioned as though the gun was protecting it.
“When you're ready to stop punishing yourself, you'll know what to do,” said Bonigan mysteriously.
“Yeah, I'll go out to the Arcade and buy some fried dough, like a normal person. If only Dewey had been playing really shallow, you know, like I was saying, then he could have had time to field the ball that went through Buckner's legs and throw Knight out at the plate. Maybe all of this was Dewey's fault. Maybe he's the one to blame for me getting sued.”
Bonigan was gone and there was no more time to throw shit balloons. It was my name on the pink slip, not the 1986 Boston Red Sox. Their trial had already happened on October 25, 1986 and judgement had been found in favor of the Mets.
I entered the dreaded building, found the courtroom, and sat on the right side. The seats were conveniently divided into two sections so the defendants (me) could keep a neutral walkway between their accusers (Rachel).
The case already in progress sounded like a disagreement over rent. The tenant had made repairs and his assumption was that the expenses would cover the rent for a month. The landlord disagreed and was suing for the balance of the rent. The disputed amount was under a thousand dollars, a pittance, and I laughed at the pettiness of both parties. They both looked like they could afford the money while my whole financial egg sandwich was at stake, plus paychecks that I hadn't even earned yet, not to mention the humiliation and the sadness. These two nitwits should step aside and let the heavy swingers into the cage.
The judge looked like my seventh grade shop teacher and who didn't appear to be very concerned with the future of either of the parties. That might work in my favor and it might not.
The rent case went on and on until I felt like yelling, “I'll pay the damn rent. You guys get a life. Your problems kneel before my problems.”
The Robe didn't seem sympathetic to the plaintiff's grief, which was good. I was the defendant and the plaintiff had the responsibility of proving I was guilty. I only had to say the right thing so I did not sound guilty. In other words, I did not have to prove my innocence. I just had to think like Ferris Bueller.
The Robe thanked the parties and told them his decision would be forthcoming in the mail. That dashed my hopes of a tense five minutes while the jury deliberated and then a ritualistic handing of the judgement. “We find the defendant, Ogden Bleacher, Not Guilty of Reckless Endangerment.” Followed by a burst of applause and the pounding of gavel. Throngs of reporters would surround me on the steps outside.
“Mr. Bleacher! Question! How do you feel, Mr. Bleacher?”
“Vindicated. Affirmed. For the first time in my life, justice has been served. Now the Red Sox have a chance. I know Ray Knight will strike out.”
I pictured myself at a lectern with microphones.
“What do you plan to do with your freedom?”
“I plan on drawing more cartoons, master the three-sectional staff and nunchucks, watch Game Six, what any healthy twenty-one years old would do.”
“Yes, you are clearly touched by genius. Anyone can see that. Your cartoons are superb.”
“Thank you. It will only be a matter of time until they are considered groundbreaking work. They may even start a new era in the fine arts.”
“Question! Are the rumors true that you will be running for mayor?”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves, folks. Let's take this one step at a time. Thank you. That's all I have time for. Game Six awaits.”
Someone handed the judge a folder that I assumed was mine.
“I'll bring that bitch to her knees with my hammering cross- examination. I'll have her confessing to killing Kennedy,” I muttered to the rug.
A diffused light filtered in through four thin, vertical windows on the east wall. The seal of New Hampshire, an American Flag and something that started, “We the People...” were the only decorations.
“All Rise!”
The Bailiff with the gun was standing near the front of the room. I inhaled through my nose and stood up. My right knee popped so loud that the judge raised his bushy eyebrows. My lower back hurt. I was turning 21 soon, but I felt like a 21-year-old dog.
“There will be a five minute recess before the next case.”
The Robe stood, turned to his right and silently descended a few stairs before disappearing through a door. I sat down with a thud. Make the guilty sweat. Oldest trick in the book, I thought. I was sorry I hadn't had a chance--or a working car--to go get Erin in Vermont. His lies--er--testimony would have been critical to my argument. But I also like the idea of being alone against the world, fighting the good fight like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Who needed a wingman?
Two girls sat with Rachel near the opposite wall and were taking the opportunity to talk and giggle. I could almost hear them say, “So Calvin Schiraldi threw a pipe fast ball with two strikes and no balls. Can you believe it?”
Maybe, I thought, I could talk Rachel out of the whole case. You have to admit that I'm pretty persuasive when I want to be. I stood up, again with a loud popping in my right knee. Though I pulled at the coat sleeves of my father's coat, they remained about three inches too short for my arms. I walked slowly to where Rachel and her “team” were sitting. They stopped talking and looked at me with a mixture of amusement and hate, the same attitude they had had the night they crossed paths with Erin and me.
“Rachel,” I said cooly.
“Ogden,” Rachel responded with equal coolness.
“You still want to go through with this?”
“You're the only one who has something to lose. I've had to ride the bus to school for a month. Do you know how long I saved money so I wouldn't have to ride the bus to school?”
“Hey, hire a fahking orchestra and get them to play you a sad song. Life is tough. Look at Dewey and Marty Barrett. You think they didn't take a few knocks in their day. What do you want me to do?”
“Buy me a new car. How else am I going to get to California? I need that car to be an actress.”
“Sweetheart, you need a boob job and a chin to be an actress. A car is the least of your worries.”
“You're right,” she said after a mean scowl, “It's your problem now.”
I never chew my finger nails, considering it a filthy habit, but I chewed on my thumb nail to keep from executing a Su Lee (Ninja Neck Snap) move on Rachel.
“Listen, after this last trip I have about ten dollars in total savings. Of course my birthday is coming up so I'll probably get some money then, maybe another two hundred dollars, all of which I owe to other people who did not maliciously insult the Red Sox in my presence.”
“But they lost,” cried Rachel.
“They're winners and they can win. I'm a winner.”
“Then buy me a new car!”
NO! I haven't made twenty-five hundred dollars in my whole life. You might as well sue me for a million. It won't matter. I'm a bootblack. I'll never pay. Never.”
“At least you got to go on a trip. I got to drive my car for less than a week. Now I'll never go to California.”
I did not care to fill her in on the trials of the past month.
“Oh, somebody get me some tape because this girl is breaking my heart,” I said with a yawn. “Look. No one got hurt. Just drop it. Come on, I'll buy you breakfast at Dippy Donuts.”
“No way. I'm not going anywhere with you. Freak! I asked around about you and there wasn't one person in town who didn't think you were a total loser. I heard you never changed your pants in school. You smelled bad. You did a lip-synch of a Run DMC song in high school.”
“It was Meatloaf. I did the Run DMC performance in Junior High School. Get your facts straight.”
The least I ask for when being insulted is that the details are as I remembered them. Otherwise, we are just wasting time. Rachel failed to correct herself and plodded on with her rot.
“You sat the bench in high school baseball. And the Red Sox suck!”
“Shut your mouth, harlot!”
“Everyone in Bone Harbor thinks you're a loser. You came here alone because you don't have any friends. Why don't you just get back in your car and go back to Mexico. And take that suit with you. It is so Seventies. You look like a complete freak.”
One of the girls next to her looked at me.
“Loser,” she said.
I pointed at them like I had pointed at them the night of the accident.
“I am well liked. People see me and they know who I am.”
“That's because you painted your name on your car door. Idiot!”
“No. I played right field like Dewey. I was a catcher like Fisk. I was a hero until the Sox lost. No one thinks I'm a freak. I kissed Rose McCorley on the lips.”
“Why would Sticky lie?” she asked dismissively. “He says he's known you since first grade and you were a complete zero your whole life. Now you are going to pay.”
My jaw was flapping at this revelation. Another shiv had been stuck in my liver by yet another Brutus. Bone Harbor was filled with these disloyalists.
“Sticky told you these lies? And you believed him? You silly, silly bitch. Nixon had a saying: Trust a Chinaman before a Russian, trust a Russian before a snake but never, under any circumstances, trust a Greek. And Nixon would know a thing or two about trust. He ran with the big dogs.”
“Yeah, well, Sticky is supposed to be here. He agreed to testify against you.”
“Against me? That piece of shit. That one-legged Greek Judas. That sissy bitch. All he does is talk shit about me. I'll kill him.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn't have trusted him enough to tell him the truth about what happened that night.”
“The only thing I told him was that his mother is a fat whore.”
“We'll find out when he gets here. You might as well start writing that check right now. My last name is spelled D-E-V ...”
“Whatever. And my last name is spelled F-U-C-K Y-O-U. See? Don't you get it? Do you got shit in your ears? I don't have the money. Read my lips: No New Taxes. I can't pay you. Even if I could, I wouldn't because you don't have a case. No one will believe Sticky. No one will believe you. What sad evidence do you have? Let me see what you've got there.”
Rachel held up a police report. For the first time I was able to read the official word on what happened that night. I mumbled as I read the report out loud as an attempt to dismiss its validity.
“Let me see this, 'Two white males...one six foot tall bearded, long hair...unkempt' Unkempt my ass...'one male five nine short hair, jeans too short... 'Oggy' painted on side of car...Gillies...Store 24...High Speed chase...harassment and recklessness...great fear...impact at Pleasant Street...Blah, blah, blah...vehicle is unsalvageable...whereabouts unknown...blah, blah...investigation continues.' This ain't shit.”
I examined a diagram of a car drawn diagonally across a street. Stapled to this report was the repair invoice that I had seen two months earlier when Rachel hunted me down at my house, sending my world out of orbit. There were also some Polaroid pictures of the damage to her car. It was Falco 3 of cars.
“The police said I did two total spins before I hit the telephone pole.”
“And that is somehow my fault?”
“Yes. Cristo says you admitted you caused it.”
“I didn't admit anything to that cheap, back-stabbing, shit-talking, Greek Judas blackboot. He's been trying to bust my shine box since I've known him.”
“He says he taped it.”
Flashing back to my drunken confession to Cristo I noticed some suspicious behavior, even for a Greek. He had prodded me though I was blind with drink. I recalled how a moment before I told him about that night he reached to his side and clicked something I thought was a remote control or a lighter. I had been too drunk to stop myself.
“That's right,” Rachel hissed as she saw my fear. “Now you're dead.”
“We'll see,” I said with as much confidence as I could fake, then I turned and tripped on a row of chairs giving the Plaintiffs something to laugh at again..
“All Rise! The Honorable Judge Thompson presiding.”
My armpits started to drip sweat onto my father's shirt. If I hadn't been wearing a coat I believe the Bailiff would have called the paramedics. A balloon of gas was inflating in my lower stomach cavity. Though I believe I respond to crisis as well as anyone, there is a moment or two before the rubber meets the road when I am useless. This was such a moment.
“Case #844921 Divine vs Bleacher. Please come forward.”
I glared at Rachel along the way. She was looking for Cristo in the courtroom, but I decided if I saw him I would hit him in the stomach, pay him back for his attack on my milk bowl.
Judge Thompson was studying the paperwork. I could only imagine what it said about me.
Thanks to a court transript I later purchasedm I can say that the following is what took place in the courtroom B of the Bone Harbor District Court in Bone Harbor New Hampshire at 11:45 AM on the morning of January 10th 1992.
“Rachel Divine?”
“Yes?”
“You are the Plaintiff in this case?”
“Correct.”
“Odin Bleacher?”
“My Name is Ogden Bleacher. Ogden. She spelled my name wrong. Does that mean I win?”
“No. Ms. Divine, is this the man you intended to bring to trial?”
“Yes, your honor. I just didn't. I mean, I wrote Ogden on there. I don't know what happened. I wrote Ogden. That man over there is the one who almost killed me.”
“We'll get to that. Now...”
“I didn't do anything. She...”
“Mr. Bleacher, you will have your turn in a moment.”
“But...”
“One Moment! Would it be possible to keep your laughter to a minimum?”
I was laughing because I suddenly found the whole situation comical. We were mice facing off over a piece of cheese. It was absurd. No matter what decision was reached here I still wouldn't pay Rachel any money. Everyone was acting so serious and yet nothing would change. Who wouldn't laugh?
We went through the whole swearing in thing. I felt like Oliver North. My objection to using the word 'God' was ignored. In a tribute to Xanadu, I asked to substitute 'Zeus' but was ignored again. The Robe then asked Rachel to begin. She tried to stall because her precious informant wasn't here.
“There was supposed to be someone else here. Can we wait for him?”
“No, we can not. Please begin.”
She thumbed some notes she had written and then went for my throat.
“Well, he attacked me with his car and made me hit a telephone pole. We almost died. He attacked me. The car hit a pole. I was crying and I hurt my hand. He owes me money for my car. Jessica thinks so too. They followed us and almost killed us. That's it.”
I felt great relief upon learning she appeared to be mildly retarded. There was no way I could lose.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
Ha. The Karate Kid was 'a little nervous' when he faced off for the Valley Karate Championships. Rachel was shitting the proverbial kitten and I was polishing my shine box. The Robe was trying to help and I made a note in my book, “Mistrial based on Judge? Sits on V. T. and sentences. Slaughter the weak! R. In tears. Time to rock!”
“Could you just slow down and tell me what happened in your own words? And instead of pointing at Mr. Bleacher, could you state his name? And Mr. Bleacher, I could do without the theatrics. You are not on television. Making faces and throwing pieces of paper at the Plaintiff are not acceptable. Understood? Good. Just take your time Ms. Divine.”
I raised my hand.
“Your, Honor? Sir, Can I say something here in my own defense?”
“You will have an opportunity in a moment, Mr. Bleacher. Please be seated. Please. Thank You.”
“Well, Oggy was at Gillies when we got there. Jessie, Trish and Katie were at Gillies with me. They saw it.”
“Is Katie the person you were expecting to come?”
“No, your honor. Cristo was supposed to be here. Katie is in the Navy and couldn't make it.”
“I object! Your honor, May I speak? I move to have this case dismissed in the interest of Justice.”
“Motion denied.”
I'd remembered that line from an episode of Night Court. It had been denied then too.
“So we went into Gillies and two men, Erin and Ogden were sitting in there and they were drunk and laughing.”
These were monstrous lies and I said as much. You can't just stand by and let your reputation take a couple below the belt.
“Mr. Bleacher. You will have an opportunity to speak. Go on.”
“They were drinking and drunk and they kept laughing at us. Look, Ogden's probably drunk right now. Stop looking at me!”
“This is typical. I didn't do anything to them. I was minding my own business, buffing my shoes, and this wench started in on me deal.”
“I am looking at a police report,” said the Robe with restraint, “How did you go from Gillies to a telephone pole?”
“See, that is why they are freaks. Can I say that? We were going to drop Katie off at the airport in Boston, so we were getting coffee at Gillies. Ogden followed us in his car for no reason at all.”
“And you know it was Mr. Bleacher?”
“His car has 'Oggy' painted on the side of it with an arrow pointing at the driver. It was parked next to Gillies. I remember making fun of it when we walked in. Who would paint their name on their car? Then I watched it chase us. See what freaks they are?”
My “freak” limit had nearly been reached. Call me anything you want but do not call me it repeatedly. Vary your insults. Be above average. In many religions, you only live once.
“Go on.”
“So, we went to Store 24 and they were hiding behind a sign across the street. We could see them laughing. So we called the police.”
This was an interesting twist. While Erin and I had been laughing and singing, the hairspray sisters had been reporting our actions to the police. Every other day of the year I get monitored like Al Capone. I wondered why the Law and I had not gone mano a mano on the one night it might have done them some good. The Robe wondered the same thing. If Rachel had called the police then why had the deal gone done as it did?
“No. See, we left before the police got there. We had to get Katie to the Airport. As soon as we got on the road again, Ogden started to chase us. We tried to get away, but they were so close. He was flashing his high beams and honking his horn. He was driving eighty miles an hour.
“Poncho doesn't even go eighty,” I blurted out.
“It does too. He was right behind my car. I couldn't even see his headlights and I tried to get away so we just kept going faster.”
“Did you own the car?”
“I bought it four days earlier for 5000 dollars.”
Who'd have thought that of the two cars plugging around the streets of Bone Harbor in December that mine would be the one with its hat still in the ring? It just goes to show you that you have to play all nine innings.
“So where did the accident take place?”
“By the Moose Lodge. At the corner of Pleasant and Court. They were tailgating us so close that we didn't want to slow down. When we turned the corner we were going too fast and there was ice and Katie lost control of the car. We spun around and hit the telephone pole. He made us hit the pole. We were trying to get to the police station.”
I'd heard this story so many times before that I could recite it myself. In three hundred years, 11th grade teachers will probably tell their students to memorize it like Chaucer. Just watch.
“Did Mr. Bleacher's car ever come in contact with your car?”
A swell detail to ask, I thought. I weighed in with a superior “Indeed.”
“Not that I remember. But it was so close. It was the same thing. He chased us.”
“How close?”
“Three or four inches.”
“And you were traveling at eighty miles an hour?”
“Maybe faster.”
This was impossible. Poncho had never reached speeds above forty. If I hadn't tried to abduct Lacy I could have used her as a witness to the fact that Poncho leaned toward the “slow and steady” camp of cars.
“Is that how you remember it Jessica?”
Jessica was one of the wench brigade who had come to my house. I recognized her from that night as the one who had taunted Erin and me about looking like hobos.
“They were drunk and they rammed us.”
This was crazy. If their story was true then Erin and I were out one night drinking beer and taking acid when four innocent girls happened past. We then decided to chase said girls and as an afterthought decided to ram their car off the road and into a telephone pole. Then we fled to drink more. Sure, and then I went home to feed the sex slave in my basement. Gadzooks! It was like a scene from Silkwood, except for one thing: almost none of it was true.
“They hit your car?”
I could see the Robe was concentrating on this one point and wished I knew more about Law. I was sure that a real lawyer who have some clever question that would lead to her flapping her lips like a fish, but I didn't know what it was.
“It was only because Katie kept going faster that they didn't hit us. They pushed us into that telephone pole. I could see their faces when they drove past. They were still laughing. I got a bruise on my hip but it's gone now.”
“So they didn't come into contact your vehicle?”
“No. Only 'cause of Katie.”
The Robe made a note and I felt the tide turning. I'm pretty sure the bible has a quote about the meek and how, if you aren't careful, they'll beat you down. This was such a moment.
“Do you have anything to add Trisha.”
Trisha was one of the Hags who I'd only seen at Gillies. I couldn't remember if she had made any derogatory remarks about the Red Sox or Poncho.
“No, that is it. They chased us and we hit the telephone pole. We wouldn't have hit it if they weren't chasing us.”
The Robe made another note and asked if there was anything, any detail they might like to add.
“Yeah,” said Rachel. “Cristo has a recording of Ogden admitting he chased us and made us crash. If he shows up that is what he would tell you. Ogden admits everything.”
“Until then, is there anything you have to add?”
“Ogden looked like a lanky mountain man with his beard and hair. You can tell he just shaved because of how pale he is. He looked crazy and his friend looked like a skin head. We were afraid, your honor.”
I resented this remark as an attack on my Nordic blood. My people are historically fair-skinned and light of the carriage, better to blend into the arctic tundra and hunt fox and seal.
“They were drunk. It was totally obvious,” a Neanderthal added.
Obvious? No, Don Baylor obviously should have pinch hit for Calvin Schiraldi in the top of the tenth inning. Bob Stanley obviously should have pitched the bottom of the tenth inning. I was not 'obviously' drunk.
“Thank you. You may be seated. Now, Mr. Bleacher? You have an opportunity to speak.”
This was the moment I'd been waiting for. I had everyone's attention, an audience I could entreat. Here was my opportunity for justice.
“This is a clear case of statutory abuse,” I said with confidence.
“Go on,” said the Robe, obviously impressed.
“Two things: Neither Erin nor I were drunk that night. I don't even drink.”
I felt this was close enough to the truth to let slide. As I've maintained all along, alcohol is poison.
“Secondly, Poncho, my car, can't go faster than fifty miles an hour. I just drove it around the country and I swear it only goes fifty.”
Around the country or around the region: What was the difference?
“Neither Smokey nor the Bandit could control Poncho at sixty miles an hour. It would most certainly disintegrate faster than the Space Shuttle Challenger if I pushed it up to eighty. No offense.”
Several looks of shock made me examine my papers for a diversion. As I tried to compose myself I muttered, “Stick to the topic. Stick to the topic.” Then I brought out the big guns.
“I'd like to submit Exhibit A, a historical map of Bone Harbor.”
I started toward the Robe with the paper equivalent of the smoking gun. The bailiff approached me and I thought I was going to have to execute a Lun Zim Roundhouse Ninja kick to defend myself, but he only wanted the map.
“You may not approach the bench. Hand it to the Bailiff. “
I did as I was told and pressed on, eyeing the bailiff for any more signs of aggression.. I'm a passive man, but I can be pushed to swift action. I pressed on.
“You will see a detailed map of all the streets we were on that night. I recently drove the distance and it was less than two miles total. Rachel makes it sound like I followed them for hours like a psycho. They flatter themselves. I would sooner follow an injured raccoon and watch it die under a bridge. Don't believe their lies.”
“Very well. Why don't you tell the truth then?” said the Robe.
The truth? What truth did I know? George Michael's music was better after he split from Wham! That's true. I'm embarrassed to say I like Air Supply. The movie Top Gun was sort of shallow and glorified Military conflicts. I think Molly Ringwald's character in Pretty in Pink was right for not dating 'Ducky', her childhood friend/admirer. Ducky was two years from wearing dresses and garter belts at a cross-dressers ball. Why throw away your senior year on a powder puff? Prince's character, The Kid, in Purple Rain was an unredeemable asshole and Apollonia needed serious help for crying during the title song. She bought him a nice guitar and ten seconds later he punched her in the head. Serious truth! Xanadu is a real pip of a movie after two or three bong hits. Footloose is about a million times better than Flashdance. Truth, yes, but not the truth I wanted to talk about.
“You want truth?” I said. “You can't handle the truth.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said the bench.
“Dwight Evans made me a promise,” I began.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This man,” I said producing the '86 team photo. “This man made me a promise over ten years ago that the Red Sox would win the World Series. Dewey promised me. He gave me this hat.” I picked up the hat the bailiff had made me take off when I walked in the room “He gave me this hat and he said that the Sox would win. In 1986 they came one strike away from winning. Here!”
I passed the team photo to the bailiff who relayed it to the judge. Though I hadn't been apart from that photo in six years, I felt that now was the time for sacrifice. The bench studied the photo and the map. Together the two documents summarized my entire life.
“Dwight Evans did not make an error in Game Six?”
“Correct. He blocked a hard ground ball and Knight took an extra base. He never shoul have been charged with an error.”
The bench appeared to ponder this bomb before dropping a bomb himself.
“What does this have to do with Rachel's accident?”
“Simpleton! What does it have to do with her accident? Your imminence, haven't you been paying any attention? Look around! It has everything to do with the accident.”
“I don't think so, Mr. Bleacher.”
“Then that is where you betray your ignorance. Those girls tested me. They questioned my loyalty to the Sox. They made remarks about the Red Sox that I can not repeat here. They made remarks about the talent and reputation of the Red Sox. I had to defend them.”
“But the accident? The telephone pole?”
“Yes! Dewey and Buckner and Schiraldi and Stanley caused the original accident. That tool Ray Knight caused the accident. The Sox lost and broke their promise. Now my job is to make everything right. See? The Plaintiff got in my way. She mistreated my shine box. I'm not just a bootblack, your honor. I'm a winner. I played Whiffle ball with Clutch and I was good. Look on your map. You can see I've listed all the games we played during the summer that JoJo moved to Plumsook. You can see how well I did against Clutch. See?”
“I see a very disorganized map, Mr. Bleacher. Whiffle ball is not on our agenda today. What do you have to add to the case before us? You do understand your role here?”
“But I beat Clutch. I was a backup catcher on the 1988 BHHS baseball team and we won the State Championship. We were winners. We won. Now I'm trying to get this guy,” I said as I hysterically punched Calvin Schiraldi's area of the photo, “to strike out Ray Knight. Because he has to throw a curveball in the dirt.”
The Robe pushed my map away from him with unnecessary distaste.
“If you have nothing further to add...I will find for the plaintiff. This isn't a game, Mr. Bleacher. I don't know where you think you are, but...”
“Me? Where am I? I'm in hell!”
Just then the back door opened up and I heard, “Is it over? Am I too late?”
I turned around, prepared to attack Cristo, but saw Erin standing in the aisle in his military cadet uniform.
“Kodiak. Help! They've gone crazy,” I said.
“Your honor. My name is Erin McCorley and I was the driver of Mr. Bleacher's car the night Rachel hit the telephone pole. I take responsibility.”
In the following shuffle of papers and general gasps Erin came up beside me and shook my hand.
“Kodiak, they've lost their minds. I told them all about Game Six and they didn't even care. They laughed at me. This is still America, right?”
“Listen, Oggy. I can't let you take the shit for this. I drove, I'll go down.”
You didn't think I actually chased a car full of girls through the night, did you? You thought I would chase a car, nearly hit them and then watch them crash into a telephone pole and drive off? Seriously? After all we've been through, that is what you think of me? I'm truly disappointed.
“I thought I could talk them out of it,” I told Erin. “I had them right on the ropes, but I guess I have to work on my closing game. Damn these judges are tricky.”
“So, Mr. McCorley, you admit you were driving.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Erin, my new hero.
“And you chased this girl through the streets, past the bridge where,” the Robe paused as he consulted my map, “Gordy Clutcher got hit by a car on his bike?”
“Yes. The overpass by the bike shop.”
The Robe nodded grimly. Erin was in the thick of it now.
“And you waited for them near the store that was once a baseball card shop where Mr. Bleacher and someone named Flash bought traded series with Cal Ripken's Rookie card? Am I reading this correctly?”
I cheered him on. Damn fine pair of eyes on the old horse.
“Yes,” said Erin with his chin lowering with each aff. ans. “Just past the bridge.”
“And you chased them past the store that was once Pic n Pay, and through the part of town where you could fly a kite ten years ago and then down Middle Street past the house--am I reading this right?--where Flash's father moved when his parent's got divorced?”
“Yeah, over by the school with the basketball court,” said Erin. My boy understood truth.
“The basketball courts where Mr. Bleacher was beaten my Stretch. a decade ago?”
“I almost beat him,” I offered in my defense, “but he had three inches on me. Tall kid.”
“That's fine,” said the Robe as he traced our route over my map. “Then you followed the Plaintiff down Middle Street, past the corner where Bugsy Kindle died on his Motorcycle and past your house, where Mr. Bleacher was given a sock?”
“I don't know if she gave him that sock, but that's where we drove.”
I felt I should allow the Robe to proceed with his inquiry. Why divert the argument to a meaningless tangent about who gave what to whom? As soon as I could find it in my room, I would have the sock. That was the important point.
“Then you drove past the store that once had a Galaga arcade game?”
“We used to go there in the summer after Junior High. Oggy had the high score for two years.”
“I was real good,” I added proudly.
“Then, “ said the Robe without a word of congratulations, “you followed the Plaintiff through the intersection where Mr. Bleacher once saw Chrissy Jenkins running in tight spandex?”
“Miller and Middle. Yes. Oggy told me about that. She was a babe.”
“The Van Halen of babes, your honor,” I said to put things in perspective for the man. You know how some generations don't quite understand Youthspeak. That is actually the whole point of the Youth songs, but you already knew that. The bird kept up with his humorless delivery.
“Then you turned right at the old Haymarket location and followed the Plaintiff down Court Street, past the Fire Station where Mr. Bleacher went on a field trip in 1981, and past the Unitarian Church where Mr. Bleacher and Flash ate all the cookies in the charity bake sale.”
“That's right. It was there that we lost sight of Rachel.”
“Yes. I remember,” I said, enthusiastically returning from my nostalgic tour around Bone Harbor. The trip/chase, I now saw, had actually taken me past some of the most treasured points of interest in my town. If only Rachel had chosen to go down Richards Avenue and past the Little League Field then I would have considered the tour perfect. “That was where I managed to convince Kodiak to stop following her. She went around the corner down Pleasant Street and then when we turned the corner she was in the middle of the road making a U-turn.”
“How could you think a collision that rendered a car inoperable was a U-turn?”
A tender question, but one I had a good answer for since I'd been paying close attention to some of the details volleyed back and forth during the proceedings.
“Because their right front end hit the pole and we were nearest their left rear corner when we passed them. See? If I had known they had hit the pole I would have asked Kodiak to stop. Obviously. The fact that I drove by them is proof that I was just playing around. I thought that was what they wanted.”
“Playing around? You were a stranger you followed them for nearly two miles. How did you think that was playing?”
“Because they seemed to be enjoying it.”
“How?”
“They gave us the finger.”
“They made obscene gestures through the window?”
“Yeah. They looked like they were having fun.”
“I was crying,” said Rachel piteously.
“Its true,” said one of the other harpies. “We were all scared. We just wanted to get away. He was creepy. It was three in the morning.”
“Well, why did you taunt me at Gillies? Why did you question Dewey's ability?”
“We didn't taunt you. What are you talking about? You are totally lying about that.”
I was sure that someone had taunted me about Dewey and since they were the only other ones I saw that night...
“Well I was nowhere near you when you hit that pole. Katie should have slowed down.”
“You looked crazy that night and you look crazy right now. You look like a pimp.”
“Wann be my ho?”
Tensions ran high, I admit. Normally I can maintain a Buddhist-like equanimity, but the sterile environs had stiffened the fur.
“Didn't you think these girls were terrified? Mr. Bleacher? Hello?”
I was thinking about who had mocked the Red Sox that night? Was it Rachel or someone else?
“We were just kidding. Didn't I explain about Dewey's promise? Dewey played right field for the Red Sox. He robbed Joe Morgan of a home run in the '75 Series. He's a winner.”
“They didn't know that you were kidding. Mr. Bleacher, what did you expect them to think?”
“But they said that the Sox suck. They made fun of my big “Red Sox Rule” banner I painted on Poncho. I couldn't allow that, not after all the abuse I've taken for six years, not after giving my whole life to seeing that strike blow past Ray Knight.”
“We didn't say anything. He's crazy. He talks to himself. Everyone knows he's crazy.”
“It wasn't my fault. Buckner didn't get down on the ball. He had to block it with his chest.”
“Mr. Bleacher?”
“Schiraldi threw an 0-2 fastball over the plate. Don Baylor had a bat in his hand. He was supposed to pinch hit. He...”
My voice trailed off because the Red Sox had taken the blame for too many things. Was I a fan or a judge?
“We never hit them,” I said weakly. “We didn't do anything illegal. Kodiak, tell him.”
The Robe put his hand up to stop Erin from speaking.
“Yes, you did, Mr. Bleacher, Mr. McCorley. Chasing a car at high speeds through a residential district is illegal. It is illegal to speed. It is illegal to tailgate. It is illegal to harass another driver. It is illegal to honk for the purpose to upset. It is illegal to flash your high beams to distract another driver. You admit to breaking five laws in an event that ended in a high-speed collision with a telephone pole. Now, since this is not a criminal trial I can not impose a fine for those crimes, but I can make a decision regarding your responsibility for the accident. You are culpable, sir.”
The Bomb had dropped and we were just waiting to see which way the wind was blowing.
“Now, Ms. Divine, you claimed Mr. Bleacher was driving.”
“I thought he was. His name is right on the driver's door.”
“You swore that Mr. Bleacher was driving.”
“Well, I guess he wasn't. But it was Ogden's car. I know that for sure. He's the asshole who hit me.
“You're the whore who crashed!” I snapped off.
“All I know is that Ms. Divine's car struck a pole. Mr. Bleacher's car was in the vicinity of the accident. Mr. McCorley may have been driving. This leads me to wonder whether or not Ms. Divine was actually driving her car. Were you?
“Well...” began Rachel sheepishly, “my friend Kate was driving, but I was right there when it all happened. I was lying before but now I'm telling the truth.
“Where is Kate now?”
“She's in the Navy. I asked her to come.”
“So your friend was driving your new car? Mr. Bleacher? Are you listening Mr. Bleacher?”
As a last resort I said, “I plead the Fifth. I don't want to incriminate myself. I know my rights.
“Too late. Why did you admit to driving the car when Mr. McCorley was the one driving?
“Because Erin had to go back to school. Bullwhip told me it would be a good song for the fires. I needed another song.”
“You were under oath. Were you aware of this?
“Sure. Why not?”
“Ms. Divine? You realize you were also misrepresenting the truth when you claimed to know who was driving Mr. Bleacher's car.”
“I didn't know. I don't have x-ray vision. I figured Ogden was driving since he was such an asshole.”
“Hey, Bite me!”
“Show me where!”
I was a little angry we didn't force her off the road. It's like Reagan said, “If you're going to get accused of something then you might as well do it.” We could have waited a little longer until she was crossing the mill pond bridge so we could run her into the water. Three dead girls equals one less visit to the small claims court.
“Don't make this any worse, Oggy,” said Erin, to which I responded that it couldn't get much worse.
“Is Ray Knight gonna hit a three-run home run? Would that be worse? They still win the game, Kodiak.”
“But they can still find against you, Oggy. I don't want you to lose everything.”
It takes me a while to get all the pieces in place, but when a solution jumps up at me like the one that just popped a cap in my head, I jump on it.
“Your honor? Excuse me? How about I just give her my car. The thing may not go too fast but it's reliable.”
If she agreed then not only would I stop all this silliness, but I could get rid of the one thing that had cursed me since I got it. If there's one thing about Judges I like it's that they grasp the deal without the usual back and forth.
“You propose giving her your car in lieu of payment?” The Robe seemed happy to have an alternative to sorting this out on paper and, perhaps, seeing my face another time.
“It's all I have. I can just give her Poncho. It's that or the loser bus.”
“But I want my car back,” whined the chiseler. “I want him to buy my car back.” She was pleading with her friends and the Robe.
I turned a heartless eye on her and said, “Rachel, I will never buy you another car. I'll move to Africa before I buy you a car. I'll join the circus and change my name first. But I will give you Poncho and call it even. Drop the case on me, don't sue Erin, take Poncho, and let's end this. Do the right thing, girl.”
She sneered at me and turned to the bench.
“Can't you make him buy me a new car? His car has his name on the door.”
“I'll paint it,” I entered into the record. “I'll paint Poncho and give it to you. It's a real pip of a car. I just drove it around the country. Gets great gas mileage. Comfortable. Cruise control. Power Steering. It took me through a dozen states, over the Rocky Mountains, across the desert and into Mexico and Canada. Almost four thousand miles of good driving.”
Of course, the fact that I had driven hardly four hundred miles and that the transmission was stuck and that the windshield was broken and many other problems were best kept secret. Why muddle up the transaction? After all, I was selling her a car for money that was still mine. On top of it all, I was a little sad I never made it out of Connecticut; my trip sounded pretty fun.
“Take it, Rachel,” said one of her hens.
“I don't want it. It probably smells.”
“It's better than nothing. Take it and sell it.”
Rachel gave in and swallowed. “OK. I'll take it, your honor. If he paints it, I'll take his car.”
“And you agree not to sue Erin? He didn't mean for you to hit that telephone pole. He's sorry.”
She nodded the melon like a good girl.
“Yeah. I agree not to sue Erin.”
“It's your car,” whispered my accomplice. “I never asked you to take the blame.”
“Poncho,” I whispered into Erin's ear, “is the biggest piece of shit that ever rolled on four wheels.” Then I winked as the gavel came down.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 11:06 PM
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