The Interview (24 page)

The game on the field came to an end. We waited for the team to clear
the visitors dugout, then trooped ourselves on in.

“OK, kids. Frankie's in. I'm out. Have a good game. I'll be on
the bleachers if you need me.”

There was a collective cheer. I flipped them off with a smile, then
went and talked to the ump.

“What's up, Kelly?”

“Nada, Crystal. How's things?” Crystal has called our
Friday night games for five years. It's unfortunate because she's a
rockin ball player. She'll fill in sometimes when we do a tournament,
but mostly she's just a Blue for us. Her girlfriend, Janet, always
umps the other field at Hart. Crystal is small, cute, and reserved.
Janet is big, ugly, and the sickest person I have ever met. Her mouth
is completely uncensored, and the pictures she has on her phone make
me want to vomit most of the time. They're very cool and very happy.

“Pretty mellow.” She gestured to the big guy walking
towards us from the other dugout. “You played these guys yet?”

“Nope.”

She lowered her voice and said, “Guy's a fucking prick. Tell
your girls to watch it when he's up.”

“Should be fun.”

“As long as you kick their ass it will be.”

“Not a problem.”

The guy was six feet, in his mid-twenties. Big arms with the
mandatory tribal armband tattoo. Big gut from too much beer. His eyes
were too far apart.

Crystal ran down the rules while him and I did the testosterone
thing. When she was done, I smiled at him and said, “Mercy is
20 after four. Try to keep up.” Crystal almost caught her
laugh, but not quite.

“We'll see little girl.”

“Is it the hair?” I asked. “I look like Shirley
Temple, huh?”

“You look like a fag, no doubt.”

“Try not to be phobic. It's not catching.”

I turned and walked back to the dugout.

“Guy's a prick. Crystal said for you ladies to be eyes up and
focused when he comes up. I promised him they'd be done by the
fourth. Go make me proud.”

We know most of the teams in our league well. And for the most part,
it's a pretty mellow time. We laugh, and screw round, and turn it on
when we need to and ratchet it back when we don‘t. We don't
mercy teams. We play and have fun. Then every once in a while, a new
team comes in, usually from Irvine, thinking they are all that. It's
my team's mission to correct their thinking.

We have no one under the age of thirty-five on our team. We really
are
Broken
Things
in one way or another.
The key to coed softball is the girls. They make or break a team. All
our girls played college ball, got married, had kids, and now play
because they love the game. Frankie fit right in.

Frankie batted fourth in the first inning, and promptly laced a pitch
over the left fielders head. He was playing in because she was a
girl. He wouldn't make that mistake again. The prick played shortstop
and didn't see a ball our entire at bat. We put up ten runs in the
first inning.

Their first two batters popped up to start off their half of the
inning. Prick came up. I could see his frustration boiling up
already. There is an unwritten rule in coed that you do not hit at
the pitcher and you don't try and hurt girls. So he came up and
promptly drove a shot right back at our pitcher, Rusty. Rusty fielded
it no problem, dropped the ball, and said, “Nice try.”

We put up fifteen in the top half of the second. Frankie had her
first action in the bottom half. Their number four girl came up, hit
a dribbler to short, and Frankie fielded it on the run and fired a
strike to Fred. The next two went in order. After two innings, 25-0.

We put up another ten in the third. Frankie hit a shot to right. It
was ruled a ground rule double. She stopped at second and gave me a
smile. The shortstop walked over to her and said something. She
laughed and pointed to me. I waved. The shortstop walked away
quickly.

They went 1-2-3 in the bottom half of the third. 35-0.

Another twelve runs for us left the score at 47-0 as they came to
bat. They needed to score 27 to keep the game going. Rusty walked the
next three batters to load up the bases for Mr. Prick. It was mean.
It was cruel. And I loved every minute of it.

Rusty has this knuckleball pitch that handcuffs batters. It's an
evil, evil pitch. He gave it to Mr. Prick. He got a hold of it,
driving it on the ground to Frankie's backhand. I wouldn't have made
the play. No way in hell. It was like she knew it was coming. She was
moving as he swung the bat. She fielded it cleanly, looked at me with
a huge smile on her face, then fired to first. Fred caught it and
immediately went home. Jasmine had the plate blocked and put the tag
on the girl as she came home. The next girl popped up to Frankie.
Game over. Mr. Prick was absolutely furious as he walked back to the
dugout.

The two teams met and did the high five, good game thing. Mr. Prick
was mysteriously absent from the line. I found him stalking off
across the park.

We cleared the dugout and congregated on the bleachers. There is
something completely satisfying about destroying a bully, and the
team felt this. Everyone was smiling and laughing. Frankie was the
center of attention, and Fred prattled on about how I could have
never made that final play. I, on the other hand, felt a vague sense
of disappointment. We began to disperse. There were kids at home
waiting for some, loved ones for others, and a bar stool and a cute
bartender for Fred. Cleats were swapped for regular shoes. Gloves and
bats were placed into bags. Everyone hugged Frankie bye.

Frankie and I walked hand in hand to the car. She was glowing. I was
as well, albeit for entirely different reasons. I was certain that
there would be a certain pissed-off bully waiting for us in the
parking lot and I couldn't wait for a piece of that action.

Much to my dismay and disappointment, Mr. Prick did not make an
appearance. My eyes scanned the parking lot for a sign of him as I
opened the door for Frankie.

“What's wrong, Kelly?”

I frowned, shook my head, and said, “Nothing.”

“You lie.”

“No, I don't. There's nothing wrong.”

She looked at me for a few beats before observing, “You wanted
that guy to force the issue.”

I looked at her and said, “Yes.”

She lowered herself into the Cougar. I shut the door and moved around
to the drivers side. I gave one last longing look around, but there
was still no sign of him.

Damn.

WE WERE IN THE SHOWER again. I was behind Frankie, my hands working
the shampoo into her hair, when she said, “You've changed.”

My hands paused in their movements. Had I? I resumed with the
shampoo and said, “Don't think so.”

We spun in a slow circle until she was beneath the stream of water. I
slowly ran my hands through her hair and worked the shampoo out. When
she was suds free, I poured conditioner into my hand and repeated the
process. Apples and coconuts filled my nose.

“The things that have happened this week changed something,”
she said slowly.

“I disagree.”

“You can't disagree. I know you, Kelly. There is something
different about you.”

“OK.”

“That's all you can say?”

“Yep.” I rinsed my hands off, then grabbed the soap and
went to work on her body. Hers was an amazing body, and in that
moment I couldn't understand why I was still thinking about Mr. Prick
and not Frankie's glorious skin.

“You're not going to argue with me about it?”

“We don't argue, Frankie. I don't argue as a rule. You have to
care to argue.”

“That's what I mean. You do care about this.” She turned
around and brought my hands up to her breasts. I obliged by soaping
them up. Neither of us noticed. She stared hard into my eyes, and I
gave her my best blank look. Frankie suddenly reached up and knocked
on my forehead, and said, “I want my Kelly back.”

“I'm right here.”

“No. My Kelly isn't seeing anyone.”

I recoiled a bit from that. “I'm not seeing anyone, Frankie.”

“Yes you are. You're seeing bullies and meanies and people who
need to be reminded that women are not their personal punching bags.”

“That doesn't change anything.”

“It changes everything, Kelly.” She spun around suddenly
and began rinsing her hair out. I stood there not sure of what I was
supposed to do. When I saw her shoulders start to shudder I climbed
out of the shower.

Great.

MY NAME AND DRINK PREFERENCES indicate otherwise, but I'm very much a
guy. When Frankie started to cry, I ran from the shower, dried off,
plopped myself on the bed and found ESPN on the television. Thank God
for ESPN! Really, what did men do in situations like this before
twenty-four hour cable sports. There is something completely soothing
about watching two talking heads recount the day's sports. A little
Sky Sports would be even better, but the hotel's cable didn't have
Fox Soccer Channel. Sky Sports is out of Britain, and they always
have a stunning, blonde anchor with a thick British accent. She's
hot, but her accent is what I love most. She makes soccer scores
sound infinitely more exotic and compelling. I could care less about
soccer, but I love watching her. I can't remember what my father did
when my parents fought. Actually, I don't remember my parents
fighting. I'm sure they did, but never in front of me.

I wish they had. I needed something to draw on at this moment.
Frankie was upset, but I didn't have a clue as to why. She was the
one who went and got married. She was the one who had kids. She was
the one who popped in and out whenever she pleased. I was always
there when she did so. Always dropped everything when she popped into
town.

So what the hell?

I needed a cigarette. I threw some shorts on and stepped outside.

The night was hot. Nothing like the brutal heat of a few days ago,
but still too hot for my liking. The loud hum of the 405 freeway was
the dominant sound, punctuated by the occasional horn, siren, and
conversation drifted to me from a bar located next to the hotel. I
was tempted to wander over to the bar, park my ass on a stool, and
get ripped. Being a psychopath can drain you in times like these.

The description was a strong one, filled with nasty connotations.
Unfortunately, it was an apt description of my condition. There has
been much debate among the so-called professionals in the field, but
psychopath fits in my case. My actions of the last week simply
reinforced this belief. My complete lack of empathy for Frankie's
emotional pain filled the requirement. Long-term goals are things for
other people. And I am fairly sure that any positive qualities in my
personality are leftover remnants of my childhood.

Therefore, it came as absolutely no surprise to me that I lit a
cigarette and thought about how I was going to approach the issue of
one Terrance Ills. I smoked two cigarettes before deciding that
tomorrow night I would pay a visit to the new bar in Placentia. After
that, I would play it by ear. The situation would be dealt with
tomorrow night. The how would take care of itself, but it would be
taken care of.

I crawled into bed next to Frankie. She said nothing. She wasn't
asleep, but she tried very hard to convince me otherwise. I drifted
off a bit later, completely at peace with my life.

FRANKIE WAS GONE THE NEXT morning. A simple note, written on hotel
stationary, rested on her pillow. She would call me. I looked at the
words for a few seconds, then tossed the note into the trash.

This worked out perfectly.

THE TRIPLE SIX WAS A dive bar in every possible way. Located on the
corner of Depot and Orangethorpe, it was surrounded by a car wash, a
few small, rundown houses, and a gravel parking lot. There was a set
of train tracks across Orangethorpe, and a small strip mall was
situated on the other side of Depot. A liquor store, Mexican
restaurant, deli, a postal annex, and a small law office rounded out
the occupants. This was the Atwood section of Placentia. During the
real estate explosion a few years back, developers had taken to
buying up the houses, leveling them, and then building a series of
condos and apartment homes. All that was left of the original
neighborhood was the block upon which The Triple Six sat.

It was just after seven when I parked the Cougar in the strip mall
parking lot, walked across Depot, and entered the bar. The name of
the place had changed, but nothing else had. The interior was as I
remembered it. Four circular tables with no chairs. A long bar ran
the length of the building, again with no stools. Four booths were
situated on the right wall. There was one unisex bathroom, again on
the right. The only noticeable addition were the four HD flat-screens
which hung on the walls. The Angels were playing the Tigers on T.V.,
and
Bon
Jovi
was crooning about “Bad
Medicine.”

There were maybe twenty people in the place, not counting the
bartender. Not a lot, but the size of the place allowed for the
illusion of a bustling business. Take this same number of clientele
and plop 'em in Mikey's or Brian's and you'd be thinking slow night.
There was no loud conversation, or laughter, or anything for that
matter save the sounds of the televisions when there was a pause in
the music.

At first glance, I didn't think Tristan had much to worry about. But,
losing some beer sales to the new bar wasn't why Tristan had pointed
me in this direction.

I sidled up to the bar. I could have gone for a stiff Screamer right
then, but the drink choices were limited to beer, beer, and beer. If
you considered Budweiser, Coors, Miller, and their respective lighter
sides to be beer. In my opinion they had piss, piss, and water-downed
piss to choose from. Give me Sam Adams, Guinness, or a Pete's Wicked
Ale, and I can drink it. The evening was not going to be pleasant if
I had to drink too much of the crap they had to offer.