Travelin' Man (2 page)

“That must hurt like a motherfucker,” the cop says. “Stay out of trouble, my friend.”

Mr. Chandler's car is a rusty old Buick. He warns KC to be careful; the springs are poking through the upholstery of the passenger seat. KC shakes his head no when Mr. Chandler asks if he's hungry
(Stop that boy, you hold that head still)
, but they pull into the parking lot of Denny's anyway. Mr. Chandler says they need to stop and get more ice.

“Try not scare the waitress with that face of yours,” Mr. Chandler laughs as he opens the door of the restaurant for KC.

The after-hours drunks have cleared out and the early risers whose shifts begin before sunrise haven't begun to arrive. The waitresses gossiping at the register look annoyed at this unwelcome intrusion on the short respite between waves of demanding customers. An old lady at the counter, likely homeless, is peering into the pages of a paperback, a small heap of torn, empty sugar packs beside her coffee cup. The pain grows more intense as KC sits quietly, barely moving or speaking, trying to avoid Mr. Chandler's gaze.

“I'm gonna let you have three of these,” the old man says, pulling a prescription bottle from the pocket of his jacket. “Go ahead. Swallow one now. Save the other two for when it hurts so bad you can't stand it anymore. Don't you go telling anyone I gave them to you.”

KC stares at the pills in his hand.

“What are they?”

“Just Percocet. Go on. Two or three ain't gonna hurt you.”

“These ain't gonna show up on a drug test, are they?”

Mr. Chandler shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He hesitates before speaking, carefully choosing his words to deliver the message with as much kindness as possible. It's impossible to soften the blow. There is no easy way to tell KC he's been cut from the team.

“You got a disease son,” the old man says, one that, in his opinion, requires KC's swift expulsion from the roster. Not that he had any say in the matter mind you, Mr. Chandler reminds KC.

“I hope the other fellow's looking worse,” the waitress says as she hands KC an improvised compress of ice wrapped in a dishtowel.

Mr. Chandler waves away the plastic menus she offers and orders a Coke for KC, then changes his mind, telling her to bring the kid a chocolate milkshake as he needs something heavier in his stomach. He orders a decaf for himself and again reconsiders, asking for a regular cup of coffee as he won't be going back to sleep at this hour. She can bring him a slice of lemon meringue pie too.

“Sorry, KC, but Keller says you got to go and he owns the team. He said he don't want to see your face again when I called him to tell him you'd been in a fight in a queer bar and the police were holding you until someone came to pick you up. He says the Spokane Chiefs ain't having any fruitcakes on the roster. Only the name he called you wasn't as nice a fruitcake,” he chuckles.

“I got a contract!” KC protests, knowing that a stupid piece of paper means nothing to an owner determined to purge a clubhouse cancer.

“Look, you call your agent about that in the morning. Nothing you and me can do about it right now. I feel for you, young man. I really do. Someday you're gonna have to face the Lord and account for your sins.
Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman, that is detestable.
”

“Leviticus 18:22.”

The old man is surprised by KC's familiarity with the moral lessons of the Good Book.

“See. You already know.”

The Percocet is beginning to take effect. The pain is dulled and each surge of panic and anxiety is milder, followed by long moments of peace, almost serenity. Soon enough, KC is swelling with confidence, knowing exactly the words Mr. Chandler wants to hear, a reason for the old man to go back to Keller and ask him to reconsider.

“I'm saved, Mr. Chandler. I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Last year. Just call Coach Freeman. He'll tell you. Just ask Tecchio and Rodriquez,” he pleads, citing his roommates as character witnesses. “They make fun of me for studying the Bible every night.”

Mr. Chandler winces as he leans across the table, asking KC to turn his face so he can get a better look at his cheek.

“I was so busy worryin' about your nose I didn't even see that. What happened to you KC? Looks like something bit you. You're gonna need a tetanus shot.”

The old man is shocked by the tale of a man in a woman's dress sinking his teeth into KC's flesh. He waves his hand, not wanting to hear the gory details. It's unsettling to him, the thought of young people acting like savages, their demons unleashed by liquor and drugs. He looks at KC as if he's toxic.

“That thing that bit you probably got AIDS,” he says solemnly.

KC's stomach heaves when he realizes he could be infected. He bolts from the table, knocking over his milkshake, barely making it to the toilet before he throws up the entire contents of his belly. He's broken and despondent, knowing he's lost everything tonight. Mr. Chandler finds him on the floor, hugging the porcelain bowl.

“Come on, boy, pull yourself together,” Mr. Chandler says, as KC struggles to his feet, blood dripping from his nose again. “If you're truly saved, you know the Son of God will forgive you if you come to Him with a clean heart.”

KC stares at his image in the mirror above the sink. His bloated face looks like a lumpy pillow. There are two black slits where he once had eyes. Mr. Chandler, standing next to him, looks almost sympathetic. The old trainer was once a ball player too, a lifetime ago. Mr. Chandler accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior after a life of whiskey and whoring had driven his wife and kids away and cost him his chance of reaching the major leagues. KC straightens his spine and, lifting his chin, picks up Mr. Chandler's hand and asks if he'll pray with him. The old man reacts as if KC had just slapped a red-hot poker in his palm. He plunges his hands in nearly scalding water from the spigot, pumping half a dispenser of pink liquid soap into his palms, scrubbing away any lingering trace of KC on his skin.

“Keller said to let you have a week of per diems. That ought to get you where you need to go,” he says, coldly.

“My car's still in the parking lot. Can you give me lift?”

Mr. Chandler agrees, reluctantly, knowing it wouldn't be very Christian of him to abandon the kid in a Denny's rest room. Mr. Chandler cranks up the volume of the car radio, tuned to the gospel music station. KC and the old man only speak so that KC can give him directions. Club Odyssey, the scene of his downfall, was once a K-Mart, the anchor of a strip mall that's fallen on hard times. The only other tenants are bail bond shops and nail salons, a Chinese take-out and a laundromat. At this hour, there's a single vehicle in the lot. KC's heart sinks when they're close enough to see the damage some vandal has done to his Blue Pearl Honda Civic. All four tires are slashed and the headlights and taillights have been smashed by a blunt instrument. The word FAG is spray-painted on the windshield.

“Can you take me home Mr. Chandler?” he asks, his voice weak and defeated.

“I can't have someone like you in my house,” the old man says unapologetically.

“No. I mean my apartment.”

“Keller don't want you back there around those other boys.”

“Fuck him!” KC shouts, immediately regretting using such offensive language to a Christian man like Mr. Chandler. “I mean I paid for it. Two hundred fifty dollars this month.”

Mr. Chandler considers KC's argument. They drive until they find an ATM and he asks KC to wait in the car. When he returns, he reaches to press a stack of fresh bills in KC's hand, then reconsiders, setting them on the dashboard.

“That's two hundred fifty dollars. Go ahead and count it. I'm gonna take you over to the Travel Lodge. Put you up for three nights. Paid in advance on my credit card. I'm gonna make sure you get your per diem in cash and someone will bring you your clothes. I'm gonna be praying for you KC. Praying that you find your way.”

 

The banging on the door forces him from his bed. KC's still half-asleep, groggy from the second Percocet he'd swallowed after the pain jolted him awake when he'd rolled on his face. He doesn't remember where he is, why he's awakened in this strange room. Then it all comes crashing over him. The broken nose. The cops. Being cut from the team. Having nowhere to go and no way to get there. The pounding is louder now, more insistent, as he stumbles towards the door.

“Who is it?”

The simple act of speaking causes his face to ache.
Breathe through your mouth,
he remembers Mr. Chandler telling him.

“Housekeeping. You want your room cleaned today?”

“No,” he answers, then remembers every towel in the room is either soaking wet from melted ice or damp with blood.

He opens the door, thinking it's early morning, and is surprised by the streaks of fading violet in the twilight sky. He calls after the cleaning lady, who is pushing her trolley down the concrete deck, “Wait!”

The housekeeper turns and stares at him, indifferent to both his battered face and the fact he's wearing nothing but his underwear. “Make up your mind. My shift's over in fifteen minutes.”

“Can I have clean towels, please,” he asks sheepishly, suddenly stricken by an attack of modesty. He crosses his legs and covers his crotch with his left hand.

“You need toilet paper?” she asks as she hands him a stack of towels.

He thanks her and closes the door to his room. He's overwhelmed by his circumstances, then panics, fearing that, sometime last night, he'd lost his cell phone. He finds it in the pocket of his jeans, but the battery's dead and he has no way to recharge it. His spirits soar when the phone in his room rings. It must be Mr. Chandler or someone else from the Chiefs, telling him to come to back to the ballpark, that he's being penciled into the lineup card, that all is forgiven and forgotten. He makes a quick bargain with God before picking up the receiver, promising to do whatever He asks if only things will go back to the way they were before last night.

“It is the registration desk calling,” a heavily accented voice announces. “There is a man here for you. He says you must sign.”

He dresses quickly and races to the office. He'd hoped the team would send a familiar face, a sympathetic ear willing to carry back his promise it will never happen again. But it's a stranger in a FedEx uniform who asks him to sign the receipt for the sealed envelope and the duffel bag with the Spokane Chiefs insignia. The courier scowls when he realizes he isn't getting a tip.

“Open the bag please,” the dark-skinned man at the registration desk insists when they are alone. It's a command, not a request, polite but firm. The man speaks with authority. He's formal and dignified despite his short-sleeved sport shirt and sandals.

“It's just my stuff,” KC explains, not wanting to dump his dirty laundry on the floor.

“Open the bag, please. I must be sure you are not having drugs delivered to my place of business.”

KC is relieved that his phone charger is the first thing he finds when he unzips his bag. The man at the registration desk seems satisfied, saying he has seen enough, when KC pulls the Holy Bible from the duffel.

“How many more nights do I have?” he asks, uncertain how long he's been asleep, how many days since Mr. Chandler rented the room.

“Two nights. Your friend paid for three nights. Last night. Tonight. Tomorrow. Then you pay eighty-nine dollars a night to stay longer. In advance.”

KC plugs in his phone as soon as he returns to his room. There are eight missed calls and three voice mails. All from Sacramento, from Coach Freeman's phone.

Mrs. Freeman sounds more anxious than her husband.

And, finally, one last message left in mid-afternoon.

No one from the Chiefs has called. Not Mr. Chandler. Not the business manager. None of his teammates. There's exactly two hundred and ten dollars in the envelope, seven days of per diems and a copy of the letter from the law firm representing the Chiefs to KC's agent formally informing him his client's contract has been terminated for breach of the morals clause. There's also a sheet of notepaper tucked under the cover of the Bible. Citations to Bible verses are printed in Mr. Chandler's handwriting.

Genesis 18:22-23.

And.

1 Corinthians 6:18-20.