Electric
Some kind of pressure trough has been pulling air from the
Gulf of Mexico and turning San Jose into a hot and muggy place. On a night
toward the end of July, the humidity comes with nasty-looking clouds. It
reminds Zelda of summers visiting her aunt in Nebraska. Could grasshoppers and
fireflies be far behind?
The patrons are not so enthusiastic. They spend the first
few innings picking at their clothing, and seem vastly relieved when the sun
disappears over the Santa Cruz Mountains.
When the sixth inning arrives, Zelda heads downstairs to
assemble her outfit. It’s the Giants’ annual Grateful Dead night, and the team
is playing in tie-dye uniforms. She dons one of the jerseys and adds a few more
touches: a painted daisy around one eye, a string of love beads, a woven
headband and green circle sunglasses. After the last out, she reports to the
third base line. The PA delivers “White Rabbit.” Zelda skips around home plate,
throwing in a couple Deadhead swirls. Gigante meets her in front of the Giants’
dugout, wearing a rakish black fedora and suit, holding in his teeth an
enormous red rose. He shimmies and extends a hand. Zelda gives a shy giggle then
relents, racing to his side. He takes her by the waist and spins twice, the
centrifugal force lifting her into the air. When he stops, she slides to the
ground, raking a hand down his leg. As Jefferson Airplane’s Bolero drumbeat
rings louder, he takes her hand and lifts her into a clinch. On consecutive
beats they turn their heads left, right and opposite, then they aim their arms
forward and conduct the expected march across the green. Gigante stops, reaches
an arm around her waist, and they tease each other with a duel of footswirls.
They lock hands and Zelda falls into a spinning descent, stopping just before
she hits the ground. Gigante whips her sideways. She locks her knees, allowing
him to pull her back to her feet.
They turn toward right field and conduct another march, this
one with dropbacks, shifts, spins. Zelda trails behind; Gigante pulls her back
till they’re face-to-face. As the music rises to its end, Gigante drops her
into a dip, settles her to the turf, then takes the rose from his teeth, puts
it in her mouth, and rises to leave. Zelda grabs desperately for his foot. He
drags her for two paces, then, as the music reaches its ending climax, he
shoots a hand toward the horizon. They hold the pose for two beats. A lightning
bolt strikes the parking lot beyond centerfield. The crowd lets out a communal
gasp, then a burst of laughter and applause.
“I don’t suppose you planned the special effects.” Zarita
cracks a shell and tosses the peanuts into her mouth.
“Planned it hell,” says Zelda. “Scared the crap out of me.”
Zarita holds up her Flipcam. “Got it on tape.”
“No!” Zelda hands her a beer and sits down.
“I think we’re talking viral,” says Zarita. “Ooh. Sanchez
coming in. Rrowr!”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Somethin’ ‘bout them Latin boys.”
“And what would your gringo boy say about that?”
Zarita waves a hand. “Jackson says he doesn’t care who winds
me up as long as he gets to wind me down. Rrowr.”
“Is that your new thing? ‘Rrowr’?”
“Rrowrrrr.” Zarita cultivates a grin that threatens to
sprain her face.
Zelda points a finger. “Lots of sex going on with
girlfriend.”
Zelda takes a draught of beer, a summer hefeweizen that hits
all her thirst nodes. Sanchez nails the outside corner with a cutter.
“Yes!” says Zarita. “Hey, speaking of sex, that tango was
pretty hot.”
Zelda giggles. “How can you tell? I’m dancing with a
gorilla.”
“Oh, I can tell. When you have a certain amount of sex, you
develop a kind of…”
She stops when she sees how hard Zelda is working at holding
back her smile.
“Zelda?”
Zelda’s eyes go this way and that. Zarita’s tone rises.
“Zelda?”
Zelda swallows, then delivers a stage aside. “I am fucking
the gorilla.”
Zarita’s eyes expand exponentially. She slaps Zelda on the
shoulder. “No! How did this happen?”
“We have an arrangement. I offer him the use of my shower.
If I have time, we screw.”
“Then he takes another shower?”
“Yes. And then he comes to the coffeehouse and tries not to
stare at me. And I try to work while my legs are turning to Jell-O. And then it
gets too much, so I drag him into the back for a blow job.”
“Aiee!” Zarita slaps Zelda’s extremities repeatedly.
“Stop!” Zelda squeals. “Guy-eeh! What are you, twelve?”
“This quantity of hormones in my bloodstream, I am an infant.”
She gives Zelda a sly look, peering out from beneath her magnificent eyebrows.
“Soooo… what’s he like?”
The batter swings through a slider. The fans give a golf
clap. Zelda searches the sky.
“Remember how I so rudely insulted him, and he responded by running
off to get me some Red Vines?”
“So he’s… generous?”
Zelda slumps in her seat, as if someone had just sucked the
bones from her body.
“Beyond generous.
Selfless. He’s a fucking artist. He’s…”
Zarita is surprised to see tears tracking Zelda’s cheeks.
She reaches over to grab her hand.
“Sweetheart! You’re in love.”
Zelda smiles and whimpers a two-note birdsong meaning “Yes.”
The next pitch gets away and nails the batter in the arm.
The crowd lets out a gasp.
Photo by MJV
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