The Interview (11 page)

But not that night. Nope. For the first forty-five minutes I was
lights out. A shutout through four. I was three for three with two
triples and a double. I was absolutely on fire! My body and mind
were in absolute harmony. We were killing the other team. Up by
fifteen with three innings left. Glorious!

Then Alex and the two platinum blondes, Jenna and Kristi, showed up.
My game went to shit shortly thereafter.

SHAFFER PARK IS LOCATED ON the corner of Orange Olive and East Grove,
just south of Meats in Orange. The 1st base side runs parallel to
Orange Olive. I was coaching 1st when I saw the sand white Porsche
Cayenne Turbo turn onto East Grove.

The car was sweet. They start around $55,000, but I’ve never
seen one for under $70,000. Coincidentally, there had been a similar
one parked in Tristan’s driveway on both my visits. I watched
the Porsche stop in the street. The driver was considering parking
there. It was a bad idea. Many a foul ball has flown over the left
field fence during these games. More than a few times a car has been
the first thing hit. The driver decided not to chance it and pulled
into the strip mall parking lot across the street from the field.

Jenna got out of the passenger seat. Kristi from the back. Alex was
last. My knees got funky just looking at her from two hundred yards
away. The three ladies joined up and walked towards the field.

“Oh man,” said the guy playing 1st for the other team
when he saw them. “This night just got a whole lot better.”

For him and every other male maybe. For me, the night had just taken
a serious nose dive. Don’t get me wrong, watching those three
women walk across the street, cross the small strip of grass, then
climb into the bleachers, made me glad I was a guy. But Alex just did
something to me. And I had a feeling that it was not going to be good
for my game.

Jenna climbed the bleachers first. She was wearing a fluorescent
green bikini and white tennis shoes. Kristi was resplendent in a
fluorescent pink bikini and white tennis shoes. They looked like they
had just stepped out of a muscle magazine. I swear they were oiled.
Their tan skin glistened in the heat.

I only had eyes for Alex, though. She was wearing a simple pair of
white sandals, white capris, and a white, spaghetti-strap camisole
with a ruffled V-neckline. Amazing.

Jenna and Kristi sat down on the top bleacher. Alex stood and stared
at me through the fence. My heart started beating faster. I started
to sweat. It was ridiculous.

The game had come to a complete standstill. Every guy at the field
was staring at the Jenna and Kristi.

Jenna stood up, waved to everyone, and said, “Come on guys!
Play ball!”

Kristi stood up and said, “Play ball!”

Eventually it dawned on all the guys that it might be in their best
interest to play ball and maybe impress the two hotties in the
stands. We went 1-2-3 because of the two hotties.

I walked to the 3rd base dugout after the third out. My glove was in
there and I needed it to pitch. Jenna and Kristi called in unison to
me, “Hi, Kelly.” I shook my head and ignored them. My
team bombarded me with questions, which I answered by saying, “Shut
up and get in the field.”

I avoided looking at Alex. I could feel her staring at me as I walked
out to the mound. My infield was waiting there for me.

John, the shortstop said, “Kelly, what the hell? Oh my God.
Are you kidding me? You know them?”

Bill, 3rd base, said, “Dude, you can’t handle them by
yourself. Let me take one.”

Tony, 2nd base, said, “Are they strippers? Is it your
birthday?”

Fred, 1st base, said, “Don’t blow the game, Kelly.”

Of course, I did just that. After every pitch, Jenna and Kristi stood
up and said, “Nice pitch, Kelly.” I threw nine straight
balls. Walked the bases loaded in about thirty seconds. It wasn’t
Jenna and Kristi. It was Alex. I felt her staring. I could feel her.
It was driving me crazy. My shutout was about to be no more.

I turned and looked at her. I mouthed, “Help.”

She smiled. Looked away from me. It helped. I don’t know why,
but it did. It was like I had been trapped in a giant tractor-beam,
and now it was gone.

I threw a strike. “Nice pitch, Kelly!” I threw another
one. The guy swung. Made contact. Line shot right at my head. I got
my glove up and snagged it. One out. “Nice play, Kelly!“
I threw another strike. “Nice pitch, Kelly!” I threw
another one. Grounder to short. John fielded it clean. Flipped it to
Tony, who stepped on 2nd, then turned and fired to 1st. Double play.
Three outs. Shutout intact. Jenna and Kristi flipped their bikini
tops up in celebration. “Wooo! Go, Kelly!”

I led off the top of the sixth. I was standing in the batter’s
box, my back to Alex, when I felt that tractor-beam find me once
more. In slow-pitch, the count starts at one ball and one strike. I
took a pitch that was deep. Ball two. Took another. Ball three. Took
another. Strike two. Full count. Watched the pitch come in. Swung.
Completely missed. Strike three. Kelly’s out.

“That’s beer, Kelly!” My team yelled.

“Nice swing, Kelly!” My two cheerleaders yelled.

I walked to the dugout. Grabbed my glove and said, “I’m
out of here.”

“No. You can’t leave,” said Fred.

“Dude, we’re up fifteen. Mike can pitch. You’ll be
fine.”

Bill said, “Take me with you.”

“Are the girls going to leave, too?” asked John.

That thought seemed to terrify my team. “You can’t
leave.” Grown men pleading. Sad.

“Deal with it. I’m out. See you next week.”

I walked out of the dugout. I ignored their pleas for me to stay. I
slipped through the gate and started walking towards my truck. I
dropped the tailgate, sat down, lit a cigarette and started taking my
cleats off.

“Hi, Kelly.”

I looked up. Alex. Gorgeous. Otherworldly. “Hey. Where are the
twins?”

“They wanted to watch the rest of the game.”

I nodded. “Why is it that I can barely function when you’re
around?”

She smiled. I melted a little.

“Seriously. I was having one of those nights. Everything was
working. You show up and I can’t hit the plate. Don’t get
it.”

“That was a great play on the liner, though.”

“I walked three straight. I got lucky. Thanks for the assist,
by the way.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stopped looking at me. You turned off that thing you have
flowing out of you that turns me into mush. I appreciate it.”

I got my cleats off. Repeated the process with my socks and stuffed
them into my cleats. “So why are you here? Tristan want to
fuck with my head a little more?”

“Tristan doesn’t know I’m here.”

“OK. So why are you here?”

She held a car key up in front of her face. “I was wondering if
you wanted to go for a drive.”

I looked across the street at the Cayenne, then back at her. “Who’s
driving?”

“You, if you can handle it.”

“I can handle it. Can the twins get my truck back to
Tristan’s?”

“They can.”

I shut the tailgate. Walked barefoot to the passenger door and
unlocked it. I grabbed the case, stuck the key in the ignition, then
shut the door without locking it.

“Keys are in it. Do you need to say goodbye?”

“They’ll figure it out. What’s in the case?”

“Later. Let’s go.”

I HEADED SOUTH ON ORANGE Olive. The six-speed Tiptronic transmission
was cool. The whole car was freaking amazing.

“This yours?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“What’s not to like? How much?”

“One-fifty, give or take.”

“Nice. Tristan pays you well.”

She smiled, ignored the statement, and asked, “Where are we
going?”

“For a drive. Jenna and Kristi going to be OK back there by
themselves? There was a lot of testosterone flowing because of
them.”

“They’ll be fine. A couple of Tristan’s guys were
in the parking lot. They’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Protecting the product?”

In my peripheral, I saw her turn her head and look at me. I didn’t
bother looking at her. I didn’t want to crash. If I looked at
her I might not be able to look back at the road.

“Does that bother you?”

“What? That they’re product, or that there are guys
protecting them?”

“That they’re product.”

“Way of the world. I’m not here to judge. I’m here
to drive this car.”

She leaned back in the seat. Just a lady out for an evening drive
with her man in her $150,000 automobile.

Orange Olive turns into Glassell. I followed it south. Passed through
the Chapman University area, then merged right at The Circle, where
Chapman and Glassell intersect. The Circle was crowded with foot
traffic. Patrons of the bars, restaurants, and coffee houses
overflowed onto the sidewalks. I followed the circle round three
quarters of the way then hung a right heading east on Chapman.

“You don’t have your earbud in tonight. How come?”

“I took it out for the game. Kind of forgot to put it back in.
Distracted by a Cayenne and an Alex.”

“Hmmm. A Cayenne and an Alex, but not a Jenna or Kristi?”

“Not my type.”

“Interesting.”

“If you say so.”

We passed City Hall. The sun was falling from the sky behind us. I’m
glad I was going east. West would have been hell on the eyes. The
shopping center where Lamppost Pizza was flowed by on the left. My
team would be headed there shortly. Pizza, beers, talk of the twins.
Good times. But not as good as what I was doing. We passed beneath
the 55 Freeway. Hospital on the left. Ralph’s shopping center
on the right. An unbroken line of strip malls for miles in front of
us.

“So how was your day? Better than yesterday?”

“Well, I didn’t get accosted by a cop, so that was a good
thing. I saved a cat. That was OK.”

“Saved a cat? Do tell.”

I did. She laughed. We left the city of Orange behind us. We crossed
over the 71, then Santiago Canyon stretched out before us. I pressed
the accelerator down.

“Do you like being a mailman?”

“Used to. Not so much anymore.”

“Why?”

“Boring. What’s your accent? French?”

“I was born in Ivory Coast.”

“Not sure if that answers my question.”

“French is the national language. So yes, my accent is French.”

“Didn’t know. How’d you end up in America?”

“I was sold into slavery by my parents so they could feed my
twelve brothers and sisters.”

“Really?”

She smiled. Shook her head. “No. Not really.”

“You’re very black.”

She laughed. Hard. “Yes. I am.”

I stopped talking, focused on driving, and ten minutes later I
stopped at Cook’s Corner. I pulled into a parking lot filled
with twenty motorcycles, most of which were Harleys, and two pickups
and a BMW 3-series. “I need a cigarette.”

I hopped out, lit a cigarette and wandered over to a picnic table.
The evening air felt good after the climate-controlled atmosphere of
the Porsche. I took a deep breath of slightly polluted Trabuco Canyon
air. Too clean. I took a hit off my cigarette. Ahhhh. Better. Alex
sat down beside me and said, “So this is Cook’s Corner.”

“You’ve never been here? It’s a historical
landmark, Alex. What the hell?”

“It’s a biker bar, Kelly. Give me a break.”

“It’s not a biker bar. It’s
the
biker
bar.” I looked around. Couple loose groups of guys stood
around smoking. Beers in their hands. Tattoos covering every inch of
visible skin. Couple of them were checking out the Cayenne. They were
nice enough here. For the most part. Still, weren’t a lot of
Ivory Coast natives running around at Cook’s on a Wednesday
night.

“You want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” I took a couple quick hits off my cigarette,
pitched it, took her hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

FOR ALL ITS FAME, COOK'S is just a bar inside. The floor is beat to
shit. There are tables with stools. There is a bar with stools. There
is a bartender behind the bar and in front of an impressive line of
liquor bottles. Cook’s has acoustic ceiling tiles with shirts
thumb tacked over most of the available space. There are
stained-glass covered lamps with bulbs burned out. Ceiling fans with
bulbs burned out. There are beer mirror’s everywhere. There are
pictures of groups of bikers hanging between the mirrors. There are
Angel and Dodger pennants. Bud Light and Coors Light banners. And
there are bikers drinking.

I was kind of hoping when we walked in that everyone would stop
talking and turn and stare at us. The music on the jukebox would
stop. And maybe an old guy sitting in the corner would cackle at the
carnage that was about to occur.

Nothing. Nobody even glanced at us. It took a few seconds for our
presence to penetrate the conversations. Then a few glances. Then
there were second glances. Then there were outright stares. I wanted
someone to be offended by the white/black thing. I didn’t get
what I wanted. They were staring at Alex because she was gorgeous,
exotic, not of this world. Where was a white supremacist asshole when
you wanted one? I held Alex’s hand, my skin tingling
pleasantly, and walked up to the bar.

“Can I get ya?” the bartender asked. She was pretty in a
haggard, abused, kind of way. You know the kind, looks forty, is
twenty-one. Big tits in a spaghetti-strap tank top. I glanced at Alex
and her camisole. Both had spaghetti straps. That was the end of the
similarities.

“Couple screwdrivers, please.”

She snorted. “OK.”

I looked around. Alex did the same. The stares ended. Reduced to
glances. Then nothing. This wasn’t working out the way I had
hoped.

“Here go. Fifteen.” I looked at Alex. Shrugged. She
reached into her handbag, pulled out a twenty and a ten. Laid them on
the counter. Looked the girl in the eye and said, “Thank you.”
The girl trembled. Fear. Desire. I don’t know. Crazy.