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Number Thirteen: Willie Mays
Willie is making that catch over his
shoulder, the ’54 Series, the long fly off the bat of Vic Wertz. The detail is
captivating: the cap about to fly from his head, the leather knots on his
glove, the upward lift of his eyes, searching for the ball. The green is a
subtle left-to-right slope leading to a square indentation, two feet across.
The ball funnels into a hole, then drops onto an adjacent green with the same
outlines as the Polo Grounds. Naturally, the hole is in deep center field.
Derek stands behind the end zone at
Evergreen State College in Olympia. The weather is being very charitable, cold
but dry. Hoquiam High is in the state semis, and Jenny, even though she hates
Hoquiam with the fury of a cheerleader, has come along.
Two nights before, Derek was giving
Jenny a neckrub, and complaining that the seams of her sweater were getting in
the way. So she took it off, and Derek found himself with a mirror view of the first
female breasts he had ever seen. Having nothing but perfect Internet breasts to
compare them to, he decided nonetheless that they were pretty top-notch. He
recalled what his dad said about signals. This one seemed pretty clear, but it
came with a surprise. He realized he didn’t have to respond to a signal just
because it was sent. He kept his hands on her collarbone, and kissed the back
of her neck to make sure she knew he appreciated the show.
The Lakewood running back tries to
crash through the line, but Hoquiam gangs up to drive him back. Derek sees the
crimson jerseys mass together like a many-limbed beast and hits the shutter. Bingo. Jenny was right; he’s a natural.
The Lakewood coach calls time out.
Derek swings his lens to Jenny’s seat in the Hoquiam section. He kids her about
her camera-radar, standard equipment for cheerleaders, but it’s true. She sends
him the brilliant smile, the one that does all these crazy things to his spinal
cord. Her eyes glimmer in the stadium lights and he hits the shutter. Bingo.
Is this the substance that adults
call “love”? Is this what Dad felt for Mom, what he feels now for Abbey? Should
he feel guilty that he likes Abbey, despite the fact that she’s Mom’s rival?
For the Mind of Derek, this is standard operations,
and another reason to be grateful for the camera. It stops his thoughts, the
way softball does it for Pablo, the way jazz does it for his dad. Lakewood
lines up for a field goal. Derek pulls back on the zoom, widens the shot to get
all the elements: the muddle of players, the ball lifting into the lights, the
goalpost, the referee in the bottom right-hand corner. Arms up, shutter. It’s
good.
Sasha has dark eyes, a solid
Mediterranean nose, one of those short urban haircuts, a thick bank of black
all on one side. One of the few assets of old age is the knowledge that there
is no chance. One is free to enjoy
being around a beautiful woman without worrying about one’s wife. He also likes
the fact that she’s tall; he has spent most of his life having to choose
between slouching or talking down to someone. Sasha brings him to the side of
Groucho’s neck and traces her fingers along a subtle seam.
“There was a funny little craze in
the fifties. Given the new personal kingdoms of suburbia, people wanted
real-looking statuary in their yards. Lacking the funds of the Medicis, they
settled for concrete replicas. A couple of companies back east – notably Ikon
Casting in Dover – came out with molds that enabled contractors to, for
instance, plant a huge Groucho-head in the Dickersons’ courtyard.”
Sasha nudges her artsy-slim
spectacles.
“The thing is, not all of those
concrete guys did a very good job. These
are gorgeous.”
“That’s my dad.”
“When Abbey sent me the photos, I had
my suspicions. The giveaway is the iconic nature of the images. Especially the
Willie Mays and the Edgar Allan Poe.”
“What about Marilyn?”
“There’s
your surprise. I did a search of Monroe images and I couldn’t find any that
matched yours. Also, it’s been what you might call ‘worked.’ Sculpted, scraped,
amended. It’s clearly an amateur creation, but it’s a damn good one.”
Thomas smiles.
Billy borrows Abbey’s truck and heads
for Olympia. He feels as though his private life is drawing to an end, and so
he enjoys the long, lonely drive over the damp green mountains. He remembers
the downtown as a home for funky shops, and he’s right. He enters a little
place called Hannegger’s and zeros in on a scarlet fedora with a black satin
band. When he tries it on, it settles into place like it’s just found a home.
He supposes people might take the red
fetish as a rebuttal to the Memphis Blues, but actually it went back further.
As a redhead, you either had to find clothes that completely contrasted or
completely matched. That’s him – Billy Redman.
He asks the cashier to slip it into a
bag and heads for the next-door bookstore. On the racks he finds Kobe Bryant,
wearing a determined expression. Among the handful of lines next to Kobe’s
shoulder is this one: The Resurrection of
Billy Saddle.
And so it begins, he thinks. Page 22 offers a distraught Blues fan being comforted by a
red-haired version of Fidel Castro. Billy peers across the street and spots a
barber shop.
David is driving home from school
when he sees a woman walking the opposite direction. The rain is full force,
drops the size of a baby’s thumb. He considers making a U-turn and going after
her, but she’s well-bundled, with a slow but purposeful stride. Besides, these
days, anything his wife does is a complete mystery.
Photo by MJV
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