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.
27
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.