Mosquitoland (16 page)

(249 Miles to Go)

Remember the Rendezvouski!

A FLOCK OF
teenage girls stands in front of us in line, each one carrying identical shopping bags. The bags depict a group of ripped, shirtless dudes on a pier. Plastered across the top in bold marquee lettering it says
LIVE
YOUR
LI
FE
.

It's an odd feeling, being chagrinned by your own generation. Long ago, I traded my pie-in-the-sky idealism—as it relates to what people are like and what they are interested in—for a more realistic worldview. It all starts in middle school. Friends with interesting quirks, like double-jointed thumbs, or overactive gastrointestinal reactions to Cheez Whiz, suddenly strive to hide the very things that make them interesting. Before you know it, you're in high school, wondering if you're the only one who actually read
Brave New World
, rather than its summary on Wikipedia. Or you're sitting in the cafeteria, pondering the complexities of the latest Christopher Nolan film while the nearest table of cheerleaders discusses whatever reality TV show is popular that week, then argues over who gives the most efficient blow job. I used to remind myself that it was only high school. Surely, the real world would be different. But I'm beginning to wonder if the whole damn planet hasn't been Wikipedia'd.

This shopping bag, with its profound
LIVE YOUR LIFE
, is a great example of this. Short of discouraging death, it means absolutely nothing. Some suit in some high-rise thought it sounded cool, and now it's on a bag. In my face. Making me want to not live mine.

Walt, Beck, and I stand in the ticket window line. Beck is texting someone while Walt is holding a butterfly by the wings, inspecting its undercarriage.

“Y'all need tickets?”

A stranger sidles up next to us. He's wearing an army jacket, a turtleneck, mittens, earmuffs, and a scarf. Dude is either deathly afraid of a sudden cold front or in love with winter accessories. Actually, stick a pipe in his mouth, and he could pass as a snowman.

“No thanks,” says Beck, tucking his phone away.

Snowman leans in. “I got primo tickets, man. Lap of luxury. Third base side, six rows back. Just above the dugout. Absolute fucking lap of luxury.”

Beck looks at the long line, then at me.

“How much?” I ask.

Snowman shrugs. “You guys seem like nice people. I'll give you four for five hundred.”

“Dollars? What is this, the World Series? The Yankees aren't in town, man.”

“There's a holiday weekend fireworks show,” says Snowman. “After the game.”

Next to me, Walt shoves the butterfly into his empty Mountain Dew bottle; he screws on the lid, and offers all of us an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Snowman eyes Walt, turns back to Beck. “Fine. Four hundred—for three tickets.”

I step in front of Beck. Time to put an end to this debacle. “I'll give you a hundred for three tickets, dude. Plus three free nights at a Holiday Inn.”

Snowman and Beck are both eyeballing me now.

“Long story,” I mutter. Then, to Snowman, “Look, the game's already started. It's Reds versus Cubs, and I'll bet you got a stack of tickets, which in approximately two and a half hours won't be worth a nickel.”

Walt pokes a stick in the bottle, torturing the poor creature.

“Make it one twenty, little lady, and you got yourself a deal.”

I kneel down and unzip my bag to get the money. Above me, I hear Snowman say, “Your little lady drives a hard bargain.”

I blush the blush of all blushes, grateful they can't see my face.

Tickets in hand, the three of us make our way toward the ballpark. Walt is literally skipping with excitement, an act worth every penny I just forked over.

Beck reaches out, stops us in front of a bronzed statue. “Idea. If at any point one of us gets lost, let's agree to meet back here. At this statue, okay? Sort of like a rendezvous point.”

I raise my ticket. “We have these. We could just meet at our seats.”

His eyes flutter toward Walt, then back to me. “I just think this might be a little . . . easier, you know? And fun. Or something.”

I think back to the one Indians game I attended, and how frenzied the crowd was afterward, everyone trying to get back to their cars to beat traffic. One look at Walt—currently jabbing his butterfly, oblivious to the world around him—and I follow Beck's lead. “You know, I think that's a great idea. Walt?”

“Hey, hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off the bottle. Inside, the butterfly's wings have gone from flapping to twitching.

“Walt, look at me buddy, this is important. You see this statue?” His eyes follow my index finger to the bronze baseball player. “If you get lost or separated from us, come straight here, okay? Straight to . . .” I read the name on the plaque. “Ted . . . Kluszewski.”

Beck pats Walt's back. “Kluszewski is the rendezvous, Walt. Can you remember that?”

“Yes,” says Walt, going back to his butterfly. “I'll remember the rendezvouski.”

I smile at Beck, a wide-eyed,
can-you-believe-the-awesomeness-that-is-Walt
sort of smile. He's wearing the same one.

“I think we'll all remember the rendezvouski.”

ONCE THROUGH THE
gates, we follow the signs to our section. Vendors are everywhere, selling hot dogs, beer, peanuts—one guy even has a half-dozen empty beer bottles glued to his hat. Just before we reach our aisle, Walt hands Beck his bottle-slash-butterfly coffin. “Bathroom,” he says. Throwing his finger in the air, he disappears into the men's room.

Beck raises the bottle to his face, flicks the plastic to see if the butterfly is alive.

“Call it,” I say, grimacing.

Beck looks at his phone. “Time of death, four fifty-two.”

“Poor thing never stood a chance.” I kneel down to tighten the Velcro straps on my shoes; afterward, I notice Beck admiring them. “
Très chic, non
?” I say, kicking a foot up in the air.

He nods. “
Oui. Et
 . . . French-for-old.”

“
Vieilles
. And yes, they're old. I like old things, though.”

He looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You like old things?”

“Sure. Frayed, worn, stringy, faded . . . It's all just proof of a life lived well.”

“Or maybe it's proof of a life, well . . .
lived
.”

I smile, and for the next few moments, we people-watch. I'm about to crack a joke about how crowds wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for all the people when Beck says, “Speaking of life and living it—Mim, you see this?” He points to the same gaggle of girls I'd seen out front, the ones with the ridiculous shopping bags.

Easy, Mary. Don't scare him off.

I nod—coolly, coyly, like I just noticed.

“Live your life,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. But it's no normal eye roll. It's an iris-receding, sigh-inducing, shoulder-sagging eye roll. In the history of History, no one has rolled eyes like this, and I suddenly can't remember the name of any boy I've ever known. I'm not sure what that says about me, that I can get this turned on by an eye roll. Honestly, I don't care. In the movie of my life, I jump in Beck's arms, wrap my legs around his waist, feel the slight bitterness of his tongue against my own as we kiss and the crowd goes wild. Walt—depicted by an unknown actor in an Oscar Award–winning breakout performance—is an ordained minister. He marries us then and there, right by the men's restroom. Beck is a Phoenix brother, either River (pre–Viper Room) or Joaquin (pre-bearded insanity), and I, as discussed earlier, am indie-darling Zooey Deschanel. Or . . . fine, a young, straight Ellen Page.

“Live your life. How about,
breathe your air
?” he says.

I smile at him. “Eat your food.”

“Button your pants.”

“Walk your dog.”

“Take your shower.”

“Do your work.”

Beck shakes his head. “Live your life, Mim. Whatever you do, just . . . live your life, okay?”

Walt returns from the bathroom. “I've decided something important,” he says. Taking his bottle from Beck, he holds it an inch from his nose. “I'm going to name him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly.”

Beck and I smile at each other, and as we turn toward our aisle, neither of us says a word. We don't have the heart to tell him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly has gone the way of Obi-Wan.

The Many Flaws of Beck Van Buren

THE CHEERING, CLAPPING
Beck Van Buren best exemplifies the contagious nature of Walt's enthusiasm. The Cubs' first batter of the inning draws a walk, but from the exuberance of my friends, you'd think they'd just won the pennant. It is, truly, a thing of beauty.

I rummage through my backpack, locate the Hills Bros. can, and do some math. I started with eight hundred eighty dollars, minus one eighty for the bus ticket, then seven dollars for haircutting shears and makeup remover. Between there and Nashville, everything was covered by the Goofball Greyhound Corp. Three bucks on carnitas, five on ice cream (at the inimitable Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus), three hundred on Uncle Phil, fifty-six on gas, nineteen at Medieval Burger, one hundred twenty on these tickets, and six on my official Reds program. I have a total of one hundred eighty-four dollars.

Damn, Malone.

Still. It's not
my
money.

“I'm gonna get a pretzel,” I say.

The Cubs ground into a double play, something they do often and well. Beck and Walt throw their hands in the air as if the ump got the call wrong.

“You're getting a pretzel now?” mutters Beck, leafing through the program. “It's a long game.”

“Is it, Beck? Please, enlighten me about the ins and outs of this strange game.” I stand, start for the aisle.

“Here, wait. Gimme your phone.”

I pull my phone out of my backpack—like it's no big thing—and hand it over.

“Old-school,” he says, flipping it open. “Nice.”

I reach out my hand. “If you're just gonna make fun of it . . .”

He punches a few keys, then hands it back. “There. Now you have my number. Just in case.”

I smile, wondering if he can actually see my heart in my throat. “You're like a little safety patrol officer, aren't you? Rendezvous points and emergency phone numbers. Are my clothes bright enough?”

He waves a hand in my face, turns back to the game. “Your pretzel awaits.”

I jog up the cement stairs, unable to hold back the smile of my young adult life. This detour has already paid for itself.

THE CONCESSION LINE
is about a mile long, but I don't mind. In my experience, the amount of time a person is willing to wait in line for any given thing is a pretty good barometer for how much that person wants the thing. And right now, “about a mile” is just the distance I'm willing to wait for a salty soft pretzel.

With the top half of the inning over, the Jumbotron is airing an animated race between two boy baseballs and one girl baseball (an anatomical feat in its own right). Nearby, a woman of considerable girth is holding a couple of hot dogs and a funnel cake; she's staring at the Jumbotron, cheering mightily for the girl baseball to win. Three kids stand around her, grimy, silent, eyes fixed on the food in their mother's hands. One of the kids quietly asks for a hot dog, to which the woman lets loose a slew of curses and threats about interrupting her while she's “busy.”

Around us, other people keep their heads down, check watches, read programs, anything to avoid acknowledging the uncomfortable nearness of this horrible stranger.

“Hey,” I say, a slave to my impulses. The woman stops screaming, and looks at me as if I just apparated right in front of her. “You know they're animated, right?” I point to the Jumbotron. “The numbered balls, I mean.
They
can't hear you.” Her kids are staring now, too, their faces dirty but cute. I point to them, look the woman dead in her eyes. “But
they
can.”

Before I know it, everyone in line is clapping. The woman starts to say something, then thinks better of it. I smile wide and wave at her as she storms off. I won't pretend not to be pleased by the response of those around me, but still—this woman's ridiculous behavior is exactly why I really don't care for crowds. Sheer mathematics dictates a ten-to-one ratio in favor of crazy.

The line inches forward. I keep my head down, follow the steps of the man in front of me.

Shit.

My epiglottis flutters, bottoms out.

His shoes.

Before I can get to a bathroom, or even turn my head, I vomit all over the bottom half of the guy.

“What the hell?” he says, quietly at first. Anger of this magnitude needs time to set in. “Oh—God.” He turns around wild-eyed. “What the
hell
?”

Without a word, I'm gone; down the bustling walkway, into the nearest ladies' room. The mess drips down my chin, leaving a trail behind me like Hansel's white pebbles. Running straight to the sink, I finish throwing up.

Penny loafers.

I close my eyes.

I'd like to be friends, Mim.

It does no good.

You want to be friends, don't you?

All I can see are those shoes.

The glassy eyes.

What then—for the rest of my life, any time I see a man wearing penny loafers, I should expect to vomit? Lord help me should I work in a bank one day. Plenty of people wear penny loafers, and not all of them are Grade A pervs.

The mirror—caked in dust and dirt and a thin yellow layer of bathroom grime—reflects a host of curious glances.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” asks a woman in a flowery dress.

But I don't answer. I can't. I just stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder how long my right eye has been closed.

“WHAT TOOK SO
long?” asks Beck.

“I got . . . held up.”

He eyeballs me. “I thought you were getting a pretzel?”

I lean over and put my head between my legs.

“Mim? You okay?”

“I threw up.”

“Are you sick?”

“What do you think?” I snap, harsher than I mean to be.

Walt turns to me with the most concerned of looks. “You're sick, Mim?”

“No, Walt.” I give him a thumbs-up. “I'm fine. Just fine and dandy.”

My unenthusiastic response is rewarded with a double A-OK gesture.

Beck pulls his camera out of his bag. “Mim sure is lucky to have a friend like you, Walt. Damn lucky.”

Walt nods, smiling. “Damn lucky.”

A cool, post-rain breeze floats from the Ohio River, a small gesture of gratitude from what has otherwise been an unforgiving climate. Beck takes some pictures, and the Cubs, as they've done so beautifully for so many decades, go down in a glorious blaze of errors, stranded runners, and missed opportunities. In the symphony of losing, the Cubs aren't just the first chair violinist—they're the conductor, the bassoonist, the entire percussion section. And Walt, bless his heart, hasn't lost one ounce of enthusiasm. He's just wild with it, actually, cheering hard on the most mediocre of plays. The game draws to a close with the Reds winning twelve to three.

A little while later, the fireworks show starts behind the center field wall.

“Ha! Oh yeah! Ooh, look, Mim! Beck! Hey, hey, that was a good one!”

Smiling, I lean sideways toward Beck. “He's like a kid on Christmas morning, huh?” I look from the explosive sky to Beck's eyes—surprisingly, there's not much difference.

“I lied,” he whispers.

Careful, Mary. There's something fragile.

“Okay.”

“Ahhhhhh, Beck, look at
that
one!” Walt shouts.

Around us, the congregation of fans cheer, laugh, point, each of them gleefully oblivious to all but the fireworks. Beck and I are with them, but not
with
them. It reminds me of Thanksgivings growing up, sitting at the “kids' table.” The grown-ups are right there, talking about important matters at work, upgrades around the house, goings-on in the neighborhood. What they don't realize is that none of that matters. But the kids know it. God, do they ever.

“It's not just a photography pilgrimage.”

“Wowwwwwweeee!” screams Walt, jumping up and down.

Beck stares blindly at the Reds program between his feet.

“Claire,” I say. “The phone call?”

He nods. “She's my foster sister. Lived with us for a year in high school before she ran away. We were close, and the way things ended . . . I just need to see her again.”

I say nothing. I wait, listen as the pieces take shape.

“Kaaa—boooooooom!
Hey, hey, that was a good one!”

“She's near here,” continues Beck. “Just across the river. After getting kicked off the Greyhound, I was just gonna hitchhike the fifteen miles, but then I heard you guys trying to buy that truck.”

“Ha! Yeah, yeah! Ooooh!” Walt sounds like he's about to have a heart attack.

“
That truck
,” I say, “has a name.”

Beck smiles, a movie star smile, a smile which my left eyeball takes a picture of and sends to my brain, which in turn, directs a lightning bolt straight to my heart, which melts on the spot.

“I called her six months ago,” he says. “Arranged this trip to come see her, but . . . she keeps calling back, telling me not to come. The whole thing's been a disaster.” His voice is low, at once fleeting and infinite. “I don't know what to do.”

For just a moment—just this one singular moment—we're the only two people at the kids' table.

I reach up and gently nudge his face toward the sky. “I think you do, Beck. And I'll help. But right now, you're missing one hell of a show.”

Together, the three of us watch the sky explode.

What I would give to see these fireworks with both eyes . . .