Epilogue: Heaven is a place on Earth
Epilogue: Heaven Is a Place On Earth
Jones Avenue lay before me once more, but the reaching branch shadows now appeared neutral. The shining holiday lights on the live spruce trees in the Clipper Home were a tacky tribute to commercialism, but better than a Jesus in the Manger play set. What could I expect? Bone Harbor was a town of donut lovers, bowling nuts, fishermen, and teen mothers. It wasn't Camelot.
Walking up Jones Avenue, away from Ogden's Point, I felt like Buckner jogging off the field after Game Six; I wasn't embarrassed by what I had done--others had done much worse--instead, I was proud that I had reached a point where my mistakes made a difference; besides, where else could I go? When the movie is over, you move to the exits. I'm not going to make a big apology or hang my head like I'm a bootblack. Buckner sure didn't; he did exactly what Ray Knight would have done if he had struck out to end the game. Buckner jogged off with the rest of the team and never looked back. Now that, amigos, is a man who understood baseball--and maybe even life. He knew there's always one more game to play, and I'd gladly shine that man's shoes.
Now, all this talk of emotional resolution doesn't mean I would hesitate to pop someone in the jaw for ribbing me about the Sox losing in 1986. Don't believe me? Go ahead, make fun of the Sox, tell the jokes about Schiraldi and Buckner, ask me how many years it's been since they won the World Series, remind me about their historic losses. Have your fun. I'll be happy to buy you a new set of front teeth, ya fak. I didn't make it this far to let people bust my shine box and piss in my milk bowl. So, go ahead and test me. It isn't like I've never been sued before.
Jones Ave threaded through the woods like a lazy river from the rural houses with wide lawns to the duplex condos where Chrissy and Karen lived long ago. If I didn't get side tracked in the cemetery looking for Wynn's grave, I would make it to Gillies in twenty minutes.
The stars of Orion, now free of WHEB's red star, blinked through the bare trees. I could still remember inventing the three-part plan to save the world on the side of the road in the desert. I remembered looking up at the giant sky, flattened at the three stars, fixed for eternity, and I knew that if I could develop three solid precepts then I could save the world. Under these same stars, I had developed the
masterful three precepts: Hitchhiking, Nudity, Crawling, yet the plan never enjoyed mass appeal. It was a perplexing problem, but no one said saving the world would be easy. But, like Huggy used to say, “With a little bit of optimism, a sense of adventure, and some penicillin, you can do anything, Oggy.” I just had to persevere.
Many stars unnamed and mysterious blinked through the bone trees lining Jones Ave. The clump of Seven Sisters, the faint stars of the Little Dipper, Draco, Polaris and the Big Dipper. Those same four stars had hung above the clouds over Fenway Park when I waited to buy tickets for the '86 ALCS. The Big Dipper was visible for 22 hours a day in Fairbanks. It simply rotated as I slept in a pine tree shelter near my trap line. The stars had followed me from the desert floor in Death Valley to the Rocky Mountains to the Andes to the dizzy beaches of Key West. Those four stars had been there on the night I searched for the rope in the Sagamore tide. They alone knew my secrets, my petty trials, and my bloodless battles. A thousand Tribes had gone to that land of Nostalgia under their glow. Those four stars, like the best of friends, do not mold us nor manipulate us nor pull us nor follow us; whether it be to flesh or to spirit, in the end, they lead us nearer to ourselves.
Those four stars...I paused on Jones Ave near the Denniford Scrap Yard. The Big Dipper had four stars. Four of them. Not three. Three was too obvious. Three was triangular. Three implied an order of importance where the power distribution was decided arbitrarily. How could change occur in such ill-conceived parameters? It couldn't. My three-part plan had failed because it was structured as though one part was more important than the other two parts. But all the parts were equally important. I only needed to add a fourth part to make it look more like the Big Dipper, or like the Fenway Park baseball diamond and then the structure would imply equality and sturdiness, like a foundation or a shine box. Of course. I could even call it the Shine Box Solution. SBS. The triangle can stand alone, but I wanted to build a foundation on which the masses could build their own ideas of salvation. It was there all along, and I had been blind to it. Everyone had been blind. To save the world we would need to crawl, hitchhike, wear no clothes to promote health, and...what? What was the fourth precept?
Hoping something might jump out at me as worthy precept, I looked around the neighborhood. Rusted metal in Denniford's dump creaked in huge piles. The Clipper Home was quiet except for the insomniacs watching late night news and reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Up the street was where Chrissy Jenkins used to live, but it had been almost a year since I had snuck around in her bushes hoping to luck out and catch her changing or in the shower. Her home no longer attracted me. Cars hummed by on Sagamore Drive, passing the South Street Cemetery on their way into Langdonville. The channel markers in the Chickanoosuc River rang in the distance, guiding ships to and from the sea. Then I understood. Hadn't Bullwhip intoned it every day since I made the deal with him? Sure, he had only appeared to me as a wraith in my imagination, but that didn't mean I should ignore his words. Even Snoopy had pretty good insight into life and he was a dog who slept on top of his dog house. “Don't forget where you come from.” That seemed like a noble enough precept to add to my plan. The indomitable square, the invincible diamond was now complete.
In the distance, the North Church's big brass bell rang announced eight o'clock to Bone Harbor. I was already late to meet Kodiak and Sticky at Gillies, but if I ran I could get there before the second order of hamburgers was cooked. I could take a shortcut through the cemetery and across Richards Avenue by the empty Little Store. Then I could climb through the Leary field fence and past the Junior High School. Then it was only a matter of going up the narrow alley between the Fire Station and the Court, past the stone Unitarian church, near the telephone pole that Rachel had hit, and down Fleet Street, past Justin's apartment, to Gillies. I knew my way around Bone Harbor; I could say that with certainty.
I started to jog slowly up Jones Avenue. No miracle had taken place in my right knee, but that was just a sports injury, the price you pay for access to the game. Still, my legs fairly flew over the pavement as they hadn't done since 1980, the year Dwight Evans hit .266, the worst among starters. I honestly didn't feel too horrible. The past six years were like a book I had once read. As long as the pages were closed, I didn't have to be reminded of Ray Knight and Mookie Wilson.
The important thing was to spread my four-part plan. The trick with these things is to get the word out to the people. Let them do the work. My old manifesto was somewhere in my closet, unless my father threw it away in his purge. If so, I could have my mother send it to me from Ecuador. In a few hours, a day or two, a week tops, I could work this critical fourth part of the plan into the text. I was ready.
Reaching Sagamore Drive, I decided to cut through the dark cemetery. The time had come to find Wynn's grave. He would be the first to hear of my new and improved plan to save the world.
Just as I prepared to sneak across the dark asphalt, a car clunked to a stop in front of me. The driver threw a cigarette onto the road and then stuck his face out.
“I've been looking for you. You shaved. Looks good.”
It was Vance. He was driving Poncho.
“Vance. What? Tell me you didn't steal Poncho from Rachel. Do you even know how much trouble I went through to give it to her?”
“You want to talk about stealing then you go talk to Roddy and Moony. Those chowderheads stole my plans for First Class Escort. I didn't steal Poncho because Poncho doesn't belong to Rachel. He belongs to The People. I'm just using him. Did her a favor anyway, the transmission is locked in second gear. What did you do to our horse?”
“Lacy threw it into Park while I was driving.”
“Why?”
“I thought she wanted to go to Mexico with me. She...actually,” I said, deciding to tell the truth for once, “I wanted her to go to Mexico with me. I was afraid to go alone.”
“You tried to kidnap her? How many times have I told you to treat women with respect?”
I thought for a second, then said, “You've never told me that.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “I thought you would never learn. Good for you. Take what you want. That's my motto.”
While I was trying to decide if this was a compliment or not, Vance squinted down Jones Ave.
“What are you doing out here, kid? Where's your cap?”
“Listen, you'll never believe what I just came up with. I've got a foolproof plan to save the world.”
Vance picked a piece of plastic interior off the car door and threw it into the street.
“Tell me about it on the way downtown.”
I hesitated and peered into the glowing cemetery.
“No, thanks. I'm going to track down Mack Wynter's grave tonight. I think...”
“Mack Wynter? The dead bald kid?”
“Oh, yes.” I grinned. “I've sort of got this tradition where I search for his headstone. I think the stars are on my side tonight. They gave me the fourth part of the plan. Now they might guide me to Wynn's headstone.”
Vance lit another cigarette and motioned toward the cemetery on his right.
“Stupid ass tradition, Ogden. Wynn ain't buried in there.”
I looked into the night sky and bit my lip. Then I tilted my head at Vance. Vance blew some smoke through the windshield.
“Don't you know?” he said in answer to my expression. “He died in '83 or '84, right, and his parents had the memorial service here over at the Unitarian Church. I remember because that was the year I got Mono from that slut in Whaleswood. Reese Something. Or was that her last name? Anyway, Wynn got buried back in New York where he was born. That's what my mom told me. What do I know? I was all drugged up with antibiotics at the time.”
“My father wanted me to wear these ancient corduroy pants. I wouldn't do it so I missed the service. That's why I never learned where he was buried. I'm such an asshole.”
“Well,” continued Vance, “The Wynters only lived here for four or five years. Mack was buried near Buffalo, I think, where Kurt was from. Bone Harbor got a water fountain. Buffalo got the bones. I figured you knew. I'm pretty sure it was in the paper.”
“I was just near Buffalo,” I moaned. “I could've seen it.”
He didn't know that I had never been near Buffalo, but it made the farce of my life more pronounced. Vance shrugged as if this was beneath his concern.
“What are you gonna do? Put it on the list of places to go. Where's your hat?”
I didn't let it go that easily.
“I've been searching for that grave for the past eight years. I've walked around this place for eight fahking years. I must know every damn person buried here. Two new sections have been filled since I started searching.”
“Look at it this way, dude. It could have been your grave. Right? It could be worse.”
Vance always could put things in the right light.
“Give me a ride to Gillies? I'm meeting Kodiak and Cristo. We're gonna eat hot dogs and meet chicks.”
“Nice. Where's your Sox hat?”
I dismissed this with a one shoulder shrug as I fell into the passenger seat. Vance handed me a tray of Onion Rings. I poured them down the hatch.
“I burned my hat in a big fire,” I said as crumbs spilled down my shirt. “Justin struck out Ray Knight at Leary Field and I went back in time and gave my hat to my son, my second kid--who I don't think was mine-- and he didn't even care. See?”
Vance nodded and said, “Of course.”
“So the Sox won but nothing changed. I didn't marry Darcy or get hand jobs from Chrissy in a white 1987 Lamborghini Countach 5000 like I used to dream about. It was just...life...except I could watch a tape of the Sox winning instead of losing. And I ended up at a supermarket like you said and I was an old, befuddled man with nothing but memories no one cared about. You know?”
“Absolutely,” said Vance.
“Then I came back to '92 and burned my hat and the tape. I didn't burn Darcy's sock because my father threw it away. All this time I kept that hat because Bonigan said the tribe needed it. He said that if I kept the fires burning at Ogden's Point then I'd have a chance to win the game. He was right, but it didn't matter. So I torched everything. The Tribe is gone. No more Youthfires. If there is a land of Nostalgia, I guess we've entered it. The ashes are cold.”
Vance nodded. “Curveball in the dirt?” he asked.
“A-yup. Curveball in the dirt. Knight waved at it.”
“Just like you always said, Oggy. Curveball in the dirt. It's a good 0-2 pitch. How did you get Ray Knight to come up here?”
“I didn't. I found Gordy Clutcher in Marshford. He had one crippled arm from an ATV accident. He's still the best.”
“So Knight struck out and the Sox won? In 1986?”
Vance's tone wasn't as skeptical as you might think it would be after having just learned I went back in time after reenacting a six year old World Series game. After 12 years in my company he had long passed the period of incredulity. Now he just liked to get all the facts.
“They were World Champions, Vance. It was the best! Dewey was so happy. But I thought more would change. Life was just kind of Brady Bunch. Even more Brady Bunch than it is now. I was just an old man with no hat.”
This description seemed to satisfy Vance, who shook his head and said, “That sucks, dude, but you know what Poison says?”
Poison, one of my favorite hair/spandex bands, produced videos guaranteed to give me an erection because the obligatory groupies/girls were always wearing torn jeans and sexy pink leather cowboy boots and at least one of them would strip her clothes off for no reason at all. Or was that the guys?
“Your mama don't dance and your daddy don't rock and roll?”
This was the first Poison tune that came to mind. It was a cover of a Loggins and Messina song, but their video was pure pornography. How else would you choreograph a scene where a couple gets into the back seat of their car at a drive in movie? Not soon forgotten.
“Nope.”
“Talk dirty to me?”
This was the second video that came back to me. The title says all you need to know about the video.
“Close. They said 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.'“
Naturally. This cliche was the opposite of saying every cloud has a silver lining. So, if Poison had all the answers, what was the “rose” and what was the “thorn” in my case? Was the rose my successful break from the cycle of Game Six, the thorn being the absence of that which defined the past six years? Was Lacy the rose who had hit me with an apple and demolished my Falco 3 tape (the thorn)? I didn't know, but Poison was right about one thing: Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.
“Sage advice, Vance.”
The passenger seat was still lumpy and the car smelled faintly of urine and burned chocolate. Vance's foul cigarettes didn't help.
“I don't know what you did on your little trip, Ogden, but it smells like you stored road kill in the trunk. Truck stops have shower rooms, you know. And,” Vance said pointing to a crack in his line of sight, “what happened to the windshield?”
“It is a long story. Long as an Alaskan winter night.”
Poncho chugged for a moment so Vance shifted between first and second gear. That seemed to work and we started to move.
“Transmission is fahked. Lucky I've got a few days off. We can use your garage and I'll pound out the linkage rod.”
“Whatever you say. Rachel might call, the whore.”
“Don't worry about that strumpet. I promised her I'd ask Moony to call her up. She's got this big dream of being famous. Crazy. She'd need a whole new mouth to be an actress. But since Roddy owes me a favor for breaking my piggy bank and then stealing my idea for First Class Escort, I got him to agree to show Rachel the ropes. He knows some agents in California. Whatever. She'll be famous one way or another. She said it was worth twenty five bucks just to see you shave. I can't believe you shaved for a court case. You sissy. You really aren't a man, are you? What's wrong with you?”
“Please leave my shine box alone, Vance. I've had a tough two months. I thought shaving would make me respectable. You know Kodiak was the one who drove that night. I just laughed while we chased them.”
“Cristo already told me,” Vance assured me. “Anyway, it's good you came back. This is where you belong. Right? Why fight it? So, what won't I believe you came up with?”
Having my decisions summed up thusly did little for my self-perception, but could I blame Vance for seeing me as the cosmic jester? The farce I called my life never failed to amuse or confuse my familiars. Nevertheless, I was glad for the chance to talk about my four-part plan.
“Oh! Listen to this. I'm glad you reminded me. I developed a radical system. It was right in front of me all along.”
“Wicked. I've got a system too, Ogden. I can't lose. I've finally got a foolproof system.”
“You said that three months ago.”
“But that system was for football,” he said, “Football is for losers. Never bet football. Too many intangibles. They should call it Foolsball because only a fool would bet on it. I was out of my head. I think they put drugs in Dippy Donuts coffee. Now, I've got a system for basketball that is flawless. I did the math. Basketball is easy money. The Monahans are giving it away. I just need a little cash to get me started.”
“Please, Vance. I have nothing. I gave my last dollar to a retard to pretend she was a home plate umpire during Game Six.”
“Well, listen to this anyway. I've been out at Macy's at the Fox Run Mall, right? I've got a friend who works in the Women's department. Have you seen what school girls are wearing these days? Bazooka Joe!” Vance twisted his hands around the decade old steering wheel. “I'm glad I don't go to school anymore. I'd have to get castrated before I could concentrate on Advanced Math. Anyway, their security system has all sorts of holes in it. I mean it is laughable. They haven't updated their security since Carter was president. We can beat it, Ogden. Then we take the goods to these kids in Riversook I know and have at least three thousand dollars in our pockets by Saturday.”
“Seriously?”
“At least. Do you know how much 501 jeans are going for these days? They sell like rolling papers at a Grateful Dead concert. You in or out?”
“Is it a job?” I asked.
“What do you mean,” siad Vance as though the word “Job” was one used by extraterrestrials.
“I mean, can I tell my dad that I got a job. Is it steady work? Can I tell him I found work and that I'm going to go to a job?”
Vance chuckled. “It's not just a job, Oggy. It's a career!”
“Great,” I said. “Now that we've got that taken care of let me tell you my little secret. You think you've got a system? No, Vance. I've got the John Lennon of all systems. See those stars up there in the Big Dipper? See the four of them? That is my system. With those four stars we can go anywhere. The Red Sox won the 1986 World Series. If I can make that happen, I can do anything.”
“You don't say,” said Vance very slowly and deliberately.
“Absolutely. Wait until you hear my four-part plan to save the world. History doesn't teach itself, Vance. Now I'm back and I know where I come from.”
Vance squinted into the night as he ran the red light at the intersection of South Street and Sagamore. He wasn't as ugly as I remembered. In fact, he was almost beautiful in the flickering dashboard light, his face wreathed in ghostly smoke. We hit Miller Avenue travelling twenty-five miles an hour. I knew the streets, Miller Ave., South Street, and Sagamore Avenue, like I knew Bill Buckner and Dwight Evans. We were winners, Bone Harbor, the Boston Red Sox, me and Vance. We didn't know that a few months later Butch Hobson would lead the Red Sox to their worst season since 1966. In 1992, the Sox would finish in last place, with a record of 73-89, 23 games behind the Toronto Blue Jays. We didn't know this, so we were still winners.
“First, I have something to confess, Vance. Something I'm not proud of.”
“I already know,” said Vance, “ that you and Flash ate all the cookies at the Church bake sale and all we sent that crippled kid in Iowa was eleven dollars.”
I grinned at the chocolate chip memory of my religious days.
“No. It's something else. Worse.”
“Oooh. I'll bet it's good.”
Then I dropped the bomb.
“I cut the rope you were climbing that time. Remember?”
Vance appeared unaffected.
“No. What rope? What time?”
I was shocked Vance didn't remember. How could he forget the moment I had learned I was a separate entity, whose decisions could destroy or save the world?
“That time we were playing Capture The Flag at the dump. Remember? You were climbing up the cliff and I saw you and cut the rope with the survival knife I got out at the Flea market with the quarters me and Flash stole from his father. I thought you would just fall into the water and not get hurt. I'm sorry.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, dude,” said Vance.”The last time I played Capture The Flag had to have been ten, twelve years ago. I dislocated my shoulder remember? I was...oh. Oh.”
Recognition dawned in Vance's smoky eyes. Poncho was spurting along like cold ketchup from a bottle.
“You cut the rope,” he said. “I thought it broke. Bastard. You tried to kill me.”
“I cut it,” I said sheepishly, “and you fell and I didn't say anything. I even might have lied to the others. I went back that night to find the rope but it was gone. It has haunted me for over a decade.”
Vance chuckled. “You seriously almost killed me.”
“I've suffered for ten years, Vance. I've had nightmares about it.”
“Well,” shrugged Vance, “I'm feeling generous these days. I forgive you, Ogden. We were young. Kids do crazy things. Take, for example, those baseball cards that went missing from your collection.”
“The ones Wynn stole to get back at me and Kurt?” I said ruefully. “He claimed he didn't steal them, that fool. Did he think I was an idiot?”
I laughed as I recalled Wynn's sad attempts to clear his name. He should have confessedanddied with more honor.
“Well,” said Vance hesitantly,”...he wasn't lying,”.
“Of course he was lying,” I chuckled. “I know he stole them. Flash and me stole his cards so he stole ours. It was only natural. But while I got caught that sissy got the pity pardon just because he had cancer. I still know he stole them. Who else would have? What wanker would ever stoop so low?
Vance coughed deliberately. I turned to look at him. His unrepentant hair blew in the cold wind channeled over the broken windshield. I squinted daggers into his neck.
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I needed the money, Ogden. I was gonna pawn 'em at that card shop near the old pizza place and then return 'em when I could get the money back, but Squidly fahked me.”
“You stole the ’82 Sox from me. That was my childhood”
“The Squid swindled me and we both lost everything. Your cards were just part of the deal. Blame Squid”
“No,” I cried, “I blame you! Vance, I loved those baseball cards. The 1982 Red Sox set is priceless! They were everything! The sun doesn't set on Fenway Park without me thinking how my life isn't really complete without those cards. I cursed Wynn 'till the day he died because he wouldn't give them back. I called him a dirty liar while he was sucking on oxygen. I hounded him as the cancer ate his insides! I'm a monster. You made me a monster!”
“Well,” whined Vance, “ do you think I liked wearing a brace on my arm for six weeks? You know when it gets really cold, and I'm sober, my arm still aches. I'll trade you that pain for your baseball cards anytime, baby.”
Vance had a point. Maybe we were even. After all, it was better to move forward without any remaining ties to yesterday or the day before.
“Then that's it.” I said as I punched Poncho's dashboard. “We move on.”
Vance put his cigarette in his mouth and shook my hand.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” said Vance, with his tongue jabbing his cheek.
I tried to settle into the seat, but I was sitting on something hard that turned out to be the baseball card package I’d just received in the mail. I pulled it out and sighed before tearing the paper off to get a good look at Tony Perez in his last year.
“It doesn’t even matter who stole those cards,” I said philosophically, “because I finally ordered the missing ones. See? Took me a decade but the 1982 Red Sox set is now complete. Just check out some of these stats.”
I was expecting Perez and Rick Miller and Yaz to stare back at me with veteran experience and youthful confidence, but a cassette tape fell onto my lap. A cassette tape?
Vance said, “Nice. We need new tunes. What's the tape? Rush? The Scorpions? Please don't tell me it's more Hall and Oates. If I hear “Kiss on My List” one more fahkin’ time...”
Bewildered, I stared at the plastic rectangle in my hands. A short note in my brother's block handwriting was stuck to the case. Great, I thought. What attack on my shine box had he come up with now? Expecting a taped sermon in defense of a strong military by Nixon or Eisenhower, I read:
“Moron - Here's your stupid hippie music. Remember those who died giving you the freedom to listen to it.”
My mouth fell open when I crumpled the note and read the cassette title. Then I reached unconsciously to adjust the Sox cap, which wasn't on my head.
Vance saw this automatic motion and said, “You need a new cap, kid. Cover up those big fahkin’ ears. We'll get you one this summer when we go to a game. Hey? Sox – Yanks. Get some beahs.”
“I don't believe it,” I mumbled.
“What is it,” laughed Vance, “A Culture Club album you already have?”
What else could it be?
“Xanadu,” I said, “My brother actually got me the Xanadu soundtrack. On Tape. That… bastard.”
“Xanadu?” Asked Vance poisonously, “The gay roller skating movie with the chick from that movie. That other gay movie.”
“Grease?” I offered snobbishly.
“No, dude. The workout flick. Physical. Or was that Jane Fonda?”
Vance sighed.
“I beat off so many times watching that,” he confessed. “All that spandex. Jesus!”
“The name of the movie wasn’t Physical. That was the name of the song. The movie was called Perfect. And Jamie Lee Curtis was the actress. Olivia Newton John was in Xanadu and Grease.”
“You are such a fahkin’ loser, Oggy. Whoever it was your brother got you a gay soundtrack.”
“ “Xanadu is the best,” I countered.
“ Yeah, well, your brother put any tabs of acid in there?” asked Vance. “Because that's the only way I'm going to listen to it.”
“Hush, child,” I said as I tenderly opened the case. The cassette itself was crisp, somehow preserved since 1980. It smelled like a Pink Floyd song.
“You hear who the Sox got? Some pitcher who throws like two hundred miles an hour. This is the year, buddy.”
“Yes it is, Vance.”
I nodded as I removed and tossed a Dio’s Greatest Hits tape over my shoulder. I then slid the tape slowly into the deck and pressed PLAY. The machine rejected the tape onto the floor. Neither Vance nor I said a word as I picked the tape up and tried again. Patiently, like a pitcher waiting for the sign from the catcher, I held the tape in the deck until the magic started:
A place
where nobody dared to go
The love that we came to know
they called it Xanadu
And now
open your eyes and see
what we have made is real
we are in Xanadu.
I smiled at Vance, whose withered and nicotine-stained lips curled into a nostalgic smile as he floored the accelerator. Poncho coughed, but then responded with a surprising surge of power. We were on Miller Avenue now, incredibly. Downtown Bone Harbor, the North Church Steeple, Market Square, JJ Newberrys, Leary Field, and steamed Gillies hot dogs flew toward us at the speed of neon starlight.
The End
Jones Avenue lay before me once more, but the reaching branch shadows now appeared neutral. The shining holiday lights on the live spruce trees in the Clipper Home were a tacky tribute to commercialism, but better than a Jesus in the Manger play set. What could I expect? Bone Harbor was a town of donut lovers, bowling nuts, fishermen, and teen mothers. It wasn't Camelot.
Walking up Jones Avenue, away from Ogden's Point, I felt like Buckner jogging off the field after Game Six; I wasn't embarrassed by what I had done--others had done much worse--instead, I was proud that I had reached a point where my mistakes made a difference; besides, where else could I go? When the movie is over, you move to the exits. I'm not going to make a big apology or hang my head like I'm a bootblack. Buckner sure didn't; he did exactly what Ray Knight would have done if he had struck out to end the game. Buckner jogged off with the rest of the team and never looked back. Now that, amigos, is a man who understood baseball--and maybe even life. He knew there's always one more game to play, and I'd gladly shine that man's shoes.
Now, all this talk of emotional resolution doesn't mean I would hesitate to pop someone in the jaw for ribbing me about the Sox losing in 1986. Don't believe me? Go ahead, make fun of the Sox, tell the jokes about Schiraldi and Buckner, ask me how many years it's been since they won the World Series, remind me about their historic losses. Have your fun. I'll be happy to buy you a new set of front teeth, ya fak. I didn't make it this far to let people bust my shine box and piss in my milk bowl. So, go ahead and test me. It isn't like I've never been sued before.
Jones Ave threaded through the woods like a lazy river from the rural houses with wide lawns to the duplex condos where Chrissy and Karen lived long ago. If I didn't get side tracked in the cemetery looking for Wynn's grave, I would make it to Gillies in twenty minutes.
The stars of Orion, now free of WHEB's red star, blinked through the bare trees. I could still remember inventing the three-part plan to save the world on the side of the road in the desert. I remembered looking up at the giant sky, flattened at the three stars, fixed for eternity, and I knew that if I could develop three solid precepts then I could save the world. Under these same stars, I had developed the
masterful three precepts: Hitchhiking, Nudity, Crawling, yet the plan never enjoyed mass appeal. It was a perplexing problem, but no one said saving the world would be easy. But, like Huggy used to say, “With a little bit of optimism, a sense of adventure, and some penicillin, you can do anything, Oggy.” I just had to persevere.
Many stars unnamed and mysterious blinked through the bone trees lining Jones Ave. The clump of Seven Sisters, the faint stars of the Little Dipper, Draco, Polaris and the Big Dipper. Those same four stars had hung above the clouds over Fenway Park when I waited to buy tickets for the '86 ALCS. The Big Dipper was visible for 22 hours a day in Fairbanks. It simply rotated as I slept in a pine tree shelter near my trap line. The stars had followed me from the desert floor in Death Valley to the Rocky Mountains to the Andes to the dizzy beaches of Key West. Those four stars had been there on the night I searched for the rope in the Sagamore tide. They alone knew my secrets, my petty trials, and my bloodless battles. A thousand Tribes had gone to that land of Nostalgia under their glow. Those four stars, like the best of friends, do not mold us nor manipulate us nor pull us nor follow us; whether it be to flesh or to spirit, in the end, they lead us nearer to ourselves.
Those four stars...I paused on Jones Ave near the Denniford Scrap Yard. The Big Dipper had four stars. Four of them. Not three. Three was too obvious. Three was triangular. Three implied an order of importance where the power distribution was decided arbitrarily. How could change occur in such ill-conceived parameters? It couldn't. My three-part plan had failed because it was structured as though one part was more important than the other two parts. But all the parts were equally important. I only needed to add a fourth part to make it look more like the Big Dipper, or like the Fenway Park baseball diamond and then the structure would imply equality and sturdiness, like a foundation or a shine box. Of course. I could even call it the Shine Box Solution. SBS. The triangle can stand alone, but I wanted to build a foundation on which the masses could build their own ideas of salvation. It was there all along, and I had been blind to it. Everyone had been blind. To save the world we would need to crawl, hitchhike, wear no clothes to promote health, and...what? What was the fourth precept?
Hoping something might jump out at me as worthy precept, I looked around the neighborhood. Rusted metal in Denniford's dump creaked in huge piles. The Clipper Home was quiet except for the insomniacs watching late night news and reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Up the street was where Chrissy Jenkins used to live, but it had been almost a year since I had snuck around in her bushes hoping to luck out and catch her changing or in the shower. Her home no longer attracted me. Cars hummed by on Sagamore Drive, passing the South Street Cemetery on their way into Langdonville. The channel markers in the Chickanoosuc River rang in the distance, guiding ships to and from the sea. Then I understood. Hadn't Bullwhip intoned it every day since I made the deal with him? Sure, he had only appeared to me as a wraith in my imagination, but that didn't mean I should ignore his words. Even Snoopy had pretty good insight into life and he was a dog who slept on top of his dog house. “Don't forget where you come from.” That seemed like a noble enough precept to add to my plan. The indomitable square, the invincible diamond was now complete.
In the distance, the North Church's big brass bell rang announced eight o'clock to Bone Harbor. I was already late to meet Kodiak and Sticky at Gillies, but if I ran I could get there before the second order of hamburgers was cooked. I could take a shortcut through the cemetery and across Richards Avenue by the empty Little Store. Then I could climb through the Leary field fence and past the Junior High School. Then it was only a matter of going up the narrow alley between the Fire Station and the Court, past the stone Unitarian church, near the telephone pole that Rachel had hit, and down Fleet Street, past Justin's apartment, to Gillies. I knew my way around Bone Harbor; I could say that with certainty.
I started to jog slowly up Jones Avenue. No miracle had taken place in my right knee, but that was just a sports injury, the price you pay for access to the game. Still, my legs fairly flew over the pavement as they hadn't done since 1980, the year Dwight Evans hit .266, the worst among starters. I honestly didn't feel too horrible. The past six years were like a book I had once read. As long as the pages were closed, I didn't have to be reminded of Ray Knight and Mookie Wilson.
The important thing was to spread my four-part plan. The trick with these things is to get the word out to the people. Let them do the work. My old manifesto was somewhere in my closet, unless my father threw it away in his purge. If so, I could have my mother send it to me from Ecuador. In a few hours, a day or two, a week tops, I could work this critical fourth part of the plan into the text. I was ready.
Reaching Sagamore Drive, I decided to cut through the dark cemetery. The time had come to find Wynn's grave. He would be the first to hear of my new and improved plan to save the world.
Just as I prepared to sneak across the dark asphalt, a car clunked to a stop in front of me. The driver threw a cigarette onto the road and then stuck his face out.
“I've been looking for you. You shaved. Looks good.”
It was Vance. He was driving Poncho.
“Vance. What? Tell me you didn't steal Poncho from Rachel. Do you even know how much trouble I went through to give it to her?”
“You want to talk about stealing then you go talk to Roddy and Moony. Those chowderheads stole my plans for First Class Escort. I didn't steal Poncho because Poncho doesn't belong to Rachel. He belongs to The People. I'm just using him. Did her a favor anyway, the transmission is locked in second gear. What did you do to our horse?”
“Lacy threw it into Park while I was driving.”
“Why?”
“I thought she wanted to go to Mexico with me. She...actually,” I said, deciding to tell the truth for once, “I wanted her to go to Mexico with me. I was afraid to go alone.”
“You tried to kidnap her? How many times have I told you to treat women with respect?”
I thought for a second, then said, “You've never told me that.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “I thought you would never learn. Good for you. Take what you want. That's my motto.”
While I was trying to decide if this was a compliment or not, Vance squinted down Jones Ave.
“What are you doing out here, kid? Where's your cap?”
“Listen, you'll never believe what I just came up with. I've got a foolproof plan to save the world.”
Vance picked a piece of plastic interior off the car door and threw it into the street.
“Tell me about it on the way downtown.”
I hesitated and peered into the glowing cemetery.
“No, thanks. I'm going to track down Mack Wynter's grave tonight. I think...”
“Mack Wynter? The dead bald kid?”
“Oh, yes.” I grinned. “I've sort of got this tradition where I search for his headstone. I think the stars are on my side tonight. They gave me the fourth part of the plan. Now they might guide me to Wynn's headstone.”
Vance lit another cigarette and motioned toward the cemetery on his right.
“Stupid ass tradition, Ogden. Wynn ain't buried in there.”
I looked into the night sky and bit my lip. Then I tilted my head at Vance. Vance blew some smoke through the windshield.
“Don't you know?” he said in answer to my expression. “He died in '83 or '84, right, and his parents had the memorial service here over at the Unitarian Church. I remember because that was the year I got Mono from that slut in Whaleswood. Reese Something. Or was that her last name? Anyway, Wynn got buried back in New York where he was born. That's what my mom told me. What do I know? I was all drugged up with antibiotics at the time.”
“My father wanted me to wear these ancient corduroy pants. I wouldn't do it so I missed the service. That's why I never learned where he was buried. I'm such an asshole.”
“Well,” continued Vance, “The Wynters only lived here for four or five years. Mack was buried near Buffalo, I think, where Kurt was from. Bone Harbor got a water fountain. Buffalo got the bones. I figured you knew. I'm pretty sure it was in the paper.”
“I was just near Buffalo,” I moaned. “I could've seen it.”
He didn't know that I had never been near Buffalo, but it made the farce of my life more pronounced. Vance shrugged as if this was beneath his concern.
“What are you gonna do? Put it on the list of places to go. Where's your hat?”
I didn't let it go that easily.
“I've been searching for that grave for the past eight years. I've walked around this place for eight fahking years. I must know every damn person buried here. Two new sections have been filled since I started searching.”
“Look at it this way, dude. It could have been your grave. Right? It could be worse.”
Vance always could put things in the right light.
“Give me a ride to Gillies? I'm meeting Kodiak and Cristo. We're gonna eat hot dogs and meet chicks.”
“Nice. Where's your Sox hat?”
I dismissed this with a one shoulder shrug as I fell into the passenger seat. Vance handed me a tray of Onion Rings. I poured them down the hatch.
“I burned my hat in a big fire,” I said as crumbs spilled down my shirt. “Justin struck out Ray Knight at Leary Field and I went back in time and gave my hat to my son, my second kid--who I don't think was mine-- and he didn't even care. See?”
Vance nodded and said, “Of course.”
“So the Sox won but nothing changed. I didn't marry Darcy or get hand jobs from Chrissy in a white 1987 Lamborghini Countach 5000 like I used to dream about. It was just...life...except I could watch a tape of the Sox winning instead of losing. And I ended up at a supermarket like you said and I was an old, befuddled man with nothing but memories no one cared about. You know?”
“Absolutely,” said Vance.
“Then I came back to '92 and burned my hat and the tape. I didn't burn Darcy's sock because my father threw it away. All this time I kept that hat because Bonigan said the tribe needed it. He said that if I kept the fires burning at Ogden's Point then I'd have a chance to win the game. He was right, but it didn't matter. So I torched everything. The Tribe is gone. No more Youthfires. If there is a land of Nostalgia, I guess we've entered it. The ashes are cold.”
Vance nodded. “Curveball in the dirt?” he asked.
“A-yup. Curveball in the dirt. Knight waved at it.”
“Just like you always said, Oggy. Curveball in the dirt. It's a good 0-2 pitch. How did you get Ray Knight to come up here?”
“I didn't. I found Gordy Clutcher in Marshford. He had one crippled arm from an ATV accident. He's still the best.”
“So Knight struck out and the Sox won? In 1986?”
Vance's tone wasn't as skeptical as you might think it would be after having just learned I went back in time after reenacting a six year old World Series game. After 12 years in my company he had long passed the period of incredulity. Now he just liked to get all the facts.
“They were World Champions, Vance. It was the best! Dewey was so happy. But I thought more would change. Life was just kind of Brady Bunch. Even more Brady Bunch than it is now. I was just an old man with no hat.”
This description seemed to satisfy Vance, who shook his head and said, “That sucks, dude, but you know what Poison says?”
Poison, one of my favorite hair/spandex bands, produced videos guaranteed to give me an erection because the obligatory groupies/girls were always wearing torn jeans and sexy pink leather cowboy boots and at least one of them would strip her clothes off for no reason at all. Or was that the guys?
“Your mama don't dance and your daddy don't rock and roll?”
This was the first Poison tune that came to mind. It was a cover of a Loggins and Messina song, but their video was pure pornography. How else would you choreograph a scene where a couple gets into the back seat of their car at a drive in movie? Not soon forgotten.
“Nope.”
“Talk dirty to me?”
This was the second video that came back to me. The title says all you need to know about the video.
“Close. They said 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.'“
Naturally. This cliche was the opposite of saying every cloud has a silver lining. So, if Poison had all the answers, what was the “rose” and what was the “thorn” in my case? Was the rose my successful break from the cycle of Game Six, the thorn being the absence of that which defined the past six years? Was Lacy the rose who had hit me with an apple and demolished my Falco 3 tape (the thorn)? I didn't know, but Poison was right about one thing: Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.
“Sage advice, Vance.”
The passenger seat was still lumpy and the car smelled faintly of urine and burned chocolate. Vance's foul cigarettes didn't help.
“I don't know what you did on your little trip, Ogden, but it smells like you stored road kill in the trunk. Truck stops have shower rooms, you know. And,” Vance said pointing to a crack in his line of sight, “what happened to the windshield?”
“It is a long story. Long as an Alaskan winter night.”
Poncho chugged for a moment so Vance shifted between first and second gear. That seemed to work and we started to move.
“Transmission is fahked. Lucky I've got a few days off. We can use your garage and I'll pound out the linkage rod.”
“Whatever you say. Rachel might call, the whore.”
“Don't worry about that strumpet. I promised her I'd ask Moony to call her up. She's got this big dream of being famous. Crazy. She'd need a whole new mouth to be an actress. But since Roddy owes me a favor for breaking my piggy bank and then stealing my idea for First Class Escort, I got him to agree to show Rachel the ropes. He knows some agents in California. Whatever. She'll be famous one way or another. She said it was worth twenty five bucks just to see you shave. I can't believe you shaved for a court case. You sissy. You really aren't a man, are you? What's wrong with you?”
“Please leave my shine box alone, Vance. I've had a tough two months. I thought shaving would make me respectable. You know Kodiak was the one who drove that night. I just laughed while we chased them.”
“Cristo already told me,” Vance assured me. “Anyway, it's good you came back. This is where you belong. Right? Why fight it? So, what won't I believe you came up with?”
Having my decisions summed up thusly did little for my self-perception, but could I blame Vance for seeing me as the cosmic jester? The farce I called my life never failed to amuse or confuse my familiars. Nevertheless, I was glad for the chance to talk about my four-part plan.
“Oh! Listen to this. I'm glad you reminded me. I developed a radical system. It was right in front of me all along.”
“Wicked. I've got a system too, Ogden. I can't lose. I've finally got a foolproof system.”
“You said that three months ago.”
“But that system was for football,” he said, “Football is for losers. Never bet football. Too many intangibles. They should call it Foolsball because only a fool would bet on it. I was out of my head. I think they put drugs in Dippy Donuts coffee. Now, I've got a system for basketball that is flawless. I did the math. Basketball is easy money. The Monahans are giving it away. I just need a little cash to get me started.”
“Please, Vance. I have nothing. I gave my last dollar to a retard to pretend she was a home plate umpire during Game Six.”
“Well, listen to this anyway. I've been out at Macy's at the Fox Run Mall, right? I've got a friend who works in the Women's department. Have you seen what school girls are wearing these days? Bazooka Joe!” Vance twisted his hands around the decade old steering wheel. “I'm glad I don't go to school anymore. I'd have to get castrated before I could concentrate on Advanced Math. Anyway, their security system has all sorts of holes in it. I mean it is laughable. They haven't updated their security since Carter was president. We can beat it, Ogden. Then we take the goods to these kids in Riversook I know and have at least three thousand dollars in our pockets by Saturday.”
“Seriously?”
“At least. Do you know how much 501 jeans are going for these days? They sell like rolling papers at a Grateful Dead concert. You in or out?”
“Is it a job?” I asked.
“What do you mean,” siad Vance as though the word “Job” was one used by extraterrestrials.
“I mean, can I tell my dad that I got a job. Is it steady work? Can I tell him I found work and that I'm going to go to a job?”
Vance chuckled. “It's not just a job, Oggy. It's a career!”
“Great,” I said. “Now that we've got that taken care of let me tell you my little secret. You think you've got a system? No, Vance. I've got the John Lennon of all systems. See those stars up there in the Big Dipper? See the four of them? That is my system. With those four stars we can go anywhere. The Red Sox won the 1986 World Series. If I can make that happen, I can do anything.”
“You don't say,” said Vance very slowly and deliberately.
“Absolutely. Wait until you hear my four-part plan to save the world. History doesn't teach itself, Vance. Now I'm back and I know where I come from.”
Vance squinted into the night as he ran the red light at the intersection of South Street and Sagamore. He wasn't as ugly as I remembered. In fact, he was almost beautiful in the flickering dashboard light, his face wreathed in ghostly smoke. We hit Miller Avenue travelling twenty-five miles an hour. I knew the streets, Miller Ave., South Street, and Sagamore Avenue, like I knew Bill Buckner and Dwight Evans. We were winners, Bone Harbor, the Boston Red Sox, me and Vance. We didn't know that a few months later Butch Hobson would lead the Red Sox to their worst season since 1966. In 1992, the Sox would finish in last place, with a record of 73-89, 23 games behind the Toronto Blue Jays. We didn't know this, so we were still winners.
“First, I have something to confess, Vance. Something I'm not proud of.”
“I already know,” said Vance, “ that you and Flash ate all the cookies at the Church bake sale and all we sent that crippled kid in Iowa was eleven dollars.”
I grinned at the chocolate chip memory of my religious days.
“No. It's something else. Worse.”
“Oooh. I'll bet it's good.”
Then I dropped the bomb.
“I cut the rope you were climbing that time. Remember?”
Vance appeared unaffected.
“No. What rope? What time?”
I was shocked Vance didn't remember. How could he forget the moment I had learned I was a separate entity, whose decisions could destroy or save the world?
“That time we were playing Capture The Flag at the dump. Remember? You were climbing up the cliff and I saw you and cut the rope with the survival knife I got out at the Flea market with the quarters me and Flash stole from his father. I thought you would just fall into the water and not get hurt. I'm sorry.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, dude,” said Vance.”The last time I played Capture The Flag had to have been ten, twelve years ago. I dislocated my shoulder remember? I was...oh. Oh.”
Recognition dawned in Vance's smoky eyes. Poncho was spurting along like cold ketchup from a bottle.
“You cut the rope,” he said. “I thought it broke. Bastard. You tried to kill me.”
“I cut it,” I said sheepishly, “and you fell and I didn't say anything. I even might have lied to the others. I went back that night to find the rope but it was gone. It has haunted me for over a decade.”
Vance chuckled. “You seriously almost killed me.”
“I've suffered for ten years, Vance. I've had nightmares about it.”
“Well,” shrugged Vance, “I'm feeling generous these days. I forgive you, Ogden. We were young. Kids do crazy things. Take, for example, those baseball cards that went missing from your collection.”
“The ones Wynn stole to get back at me and Kurt?” I said ruefully. “He claimed he didn't steal them, that fool. Did he think I was an idiot?”
I laughed as I recalled Wynn's sad attempts to clear his name. He should have confessedanddied with more honor.
“Well,” said Vance hesitantly,”...he wasn't lying,”.
“Of course he was lying,” I chuckled. “I know he stole them. Flash and me stole his cards so he stole ours. It was only natural. But while I got caught that sissy got the pity pardon just because he had cancer. I still know he stole them. Who else would have? What wanker would ever stoop so low?
Vance coughed deliberately. I turned to look at him. His unrepentant hair blew in the cold wind channeled over the broken windshield. I squinted daggers into his neck.
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I needed the money, Ogden. I was gonna pawn 'em at that card shop near the old pizza place and then return 'em when I could get the money back, but Squidly fahked me.”
“You stole the ’82 Sox from me. That was my childhood”
“The Squid swindled me and we both lost everything. Your cards were just part of the deal. Blame Squid”
“No,” I cried, “I blame you! Vance, I loved those baseball cards. The 1982 Red Sox set is priceless! They were everything! The sun doesn't set on Fenway Park without me thinking how my life isn't really complete without those cards. I cursed Wynn 'till the day he died because he wouldn't give them back. I called him a dirty liar while he was sucking on oxygen. I hounded him as the cancer ate his insides! I'm a monster. You made me a monster!”
“Well,” whined Vance, “ do you think I liked wearing a brace on my arm for six weeks? You know when it gets really cold, and I'm sober, my arm still aches. I'll trade you that pain for your baseball cards anytime, baby.”
Vance had a point. Maybe we were even. After all, it was better to move forward without any remaining ties to yesterday or the day before.
“Then that's it.” I said as I punched Poncho's dashboard. “We move on.”
Vance put his cigarette in his mouth and shook my hand.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” said Vance, with his tongue jabbing his cheek.
I tried to settle into the seat, but I was sitting on something hard that turned out to be the baseball card package I’d just received in the mail. I pulled it out and sighed before tearing the paper off to get a good look at Tony Perez in his last year.
“It doesn’t even matter who stole those cards,” I said philosophically, “because I finally ordered the missing ones. See? Took me a decade but the 1982 Red Sox set is now complete. Just check out some of these stats.”
I was expecting Perez and Rick Miller and Yaz to stare back at me with veteran experience and youthful confidence, but a cassette tape fell onto my lap. A cassette tape?
Vance said, “Nice. We need new tunes. What's the tape? Rush? The Scorpions? Please don't tell me it's more Hall and Oates. If I hear “Kiss on My List” one more fahkin’ time...”
Bewildered, I stared at the plastic rectangle in my hands. A short note in my brother's block handwriting was stuck to the case. Great, I thought. What attack on my shine box had he come up with now? Expecting a taped sermon in defense of a strong military by Nixon or Eisenhower, I read:
“Moron - Here's your stupid hippie music. Remember those who died giving you the freedom to listen to it.”
My mouth fell open when I crumpled the note and read the cassette title. Then I reached unconsciously to adjust the Sox cap, which wasn't on my head.
Vance saw this automatic motion and said, “You need a new cap, kid. Cover up those big fahkin’ ears. We'll get you one this summer when we go to a game. Hey? Sox – Yanks. Get some beahs.”
“I don't believe it,” I mumbled.
“What is it,” laughed Vance, “A Culture Club album you already have?”
What else could it be?
“Xanadu,” I said, “My brother actually got me the Xanadu soundtrack. On Tape. That… bastard.”
“Xanadu?” Asked Vance poisonously, “The gay roller skating movie with the chick from that movie. That other gay movie.”
“Grease?” I offered snobbishly.
“No, dude. The workout flick. Physical. Or was that Jane Fonda?”
Vance sighed.
“I beat off so many times watching that,” he confessed. “All that spandex. Jesus!”
“The name of the movie wasn’t Physical. That was the name of the song. The movie was called Perfect. And Jamie Lee Curtis was the actress. Olivia Newton John was in Xanadu and Grease.”
“You are such a fahkin’ loser, Oggy. Whoever it was your brother got you a gay soundtrack.”
“ “Xanadu is the best,” I countered.
“ Yeah, well, your brother put any tabs of acid in there?” asked Vance. “Because that's the only way I'm going to listen to it.”
“Hush, child,” I said as I tenderly opened the case. The cassette itself was crisp, somehow preserved since 1980. It smelled like a Pink Floyd song.
“You hear who the Sox got? Some pitcher who throws like two hundred miles an hour. This is the year, buddy.”
“Yes it is, Vance.”
I nodded as I removed and tossed a Dio’s Greatest Hits tape over my shoulder. I then slid the tape slowly into the deck and pressed PLAY. The machine rejected the tape onto the floor. Neither Vance nor I said a word as I picked the tape up and tried again. Patiently, like a pitcher waiting for the sign from the catcher, I held the tape in the deck until the magic started:
A place
where nobody dared to go
The love that we came to know
they called it Xanadu
And now
open your eyes and see
what we have made is real
we are in Xanadu.
I smiled at Vance, whose withered and nicotine-stained lips curled into a nostalgic smile as he floored the accelerator. Poncho coughed, but then responded with a surprising surge of power. We were on Miller Avenue now, incredibly. Downtown Bone Harbor, the North Church Steeple, Market Square, JJ Newberrys, Leary Field, and steamed Gillies hot dogs flew toward us at the speed of neon starlight.
The End
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 11:13 PM
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