Man Descending

to make something of themselves.”

“I was sleeping.”

“You ought to sleep in bed.” Keerash! He weighs two hundred and forty-four pounds and he never sits down in a chair. He falls into it. “Who’s that? Gary Cooper?” he asked. He figures any movie star on the late show taller than Mickey Rooney is Cooper. He doesn’t half believe you when you tell him they aren’t.

“Cary Grant.”

“What?”

“Cary Grant. Not Gary Cooper. Cary Grant.”

“Oh.” There he sat in his recliner, big meaty shoulders sagging, belly propped up on his belt buckle like a pregnant pup’s. Eyes red and sore, hair all mussed up, the top of his beer bottle peeking out of his fist like a little brown nipple. He has cuts all over those hands of his, barked knuckles and raspberries that never heal because the salt in the potash ore keeps them open, eats right down to the bone sometimes.

“How’d it go tonight?”

“Usual shit. We had a breakdown.” He paused. “Where’s your brother? In bed?”

“Out.”

“Out? Out? Out? What kind of goddamn answer is that? Out where?”

I shrugged.

“Has he got his homework done?” That’s the kind of question I get asked. Has your brother got his homework done?

“How the hell would I know?”

“I don’t know why you don’t help him with his schoolwork,” the old man said, peeved as usual.

“You mean do it for him.”

“Did I say that? Huh? I said help him. Didn’t I say that?” he griped, getting his shit in a knot.

He thinks it’s that easy. Just screw the top off old Gene and pour it in. No problem. Like an oil change.

“He’s got to be around to help,” I said.

That reminded him. He jumped out of the chair and gawked up and down the deserted street. “It’s almost one o’clock. On a school night. I’ll kick his ass.” He sat down and watched the screen for a while and sucked on his barley sandwich.

Finally, he made a stab at acting civilized. “So how’s baseball going?”

“What?”

“Baseball. For chrissakes clean out your ears. How’s it going?”

“I quit last year. Remember?”

“Oh yeah.” He didn’t say nothing at first. Then he said: “You shouldn’t have. You wasn’t a bad catcher.”

“The worst. No bat and no arm – just a flipper. They stole me blind.”

“But you had the head,” said the old man. And the way he said it made him sound like he was pissed at me for mean-mouthing myself. That surprised me. I felt kind of good about that. “You had the head,” he repeated, shaking his own. “I never told you but Al came up to me at work and said you were smart back there behind the plate. He said he wished Gene had your head.”

I can’t say that surprised me. Gene is one of those cases of a million-dollar body carrying around a ten-cent head. He’s a natural. Flop out his glove and, smack, the ball sticks. He’s like Mickey Mantle. You know those stop- action photos where they caught Mickey with his eyes glommed onto the bat, watching the ball jump off the lumber? That’s Gene. And he runs like a Negro, steals bases like Maury Wills for chrissake.

But stupid and conceited? You wouldn’t believe the half of it. Give him the sign to bunt to move a runner and he acts as if you’re asking him to bare his ass in public. Not him. He’s a big shot. He swings for the fence. Nothing less. And old Gene is always in the game, if you know what I mean? I don’t know what happens when he gets on base, maybe he starts thinking of the hair pie in the stands admiring him or something, but he always dozes off at the wheel. Once he even started to comb his hair at first base. Here it is, a 3 and 2 count with two men out, and my brother forgets to run on the pitch because he’s combing his hair. I could have died. Really I could have. The guy is such an embarrassment sometimes.

“He can have my head,” I said to Pop. “If I get his girls.”

That made the old man wince. He’s sure that Gene is going to knock up one of those seat-covers he takes out and make him a premature grandpa.

“You pay attention to school. There’s plenty of time later for girls.” And up he jumped again and stuck his nose against the window looking for Gene again. Mom has to wash the picture window once a week; he spots it all up with nose grease looking for Gene.

“I don’t know why your mother lets him out of the house,” he said. “Doesn’t she have any control over that boy?”

That’s what he does, blames everybody but himself. Oh hell, maybe nobody’s to blame. Maybe Gene is just Gene, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

“I don’t know what she’s supposed to do. You couldn’t keep him in if you parked a tank in the driveway and strung barbed wire around the lot.”

Of course that was the wrong thing to say. I usually say it.

“Go to bed!” he yelled at me. “You’re no better than your brother. I don’t see you in bed neither. What’d I do, raise alley cats or kids? Why can’t you two keep hours like human beings!”

And then the door banged and we knew the happy wanderer was home. Gene makes almost as much noise as the old man does when he comes in. It’s beneath his dignity to sneak in like me.

Dad hoisted himself out of the chair and steamed off for the kitchen. He can move pretty quick for a big guy when he wants to. Me, I was in hot pursuit. I don’t like to miss much.

Old Gene was hammered, and grinning from ass-hole to earlobes. The boy’s got a great smile. Even when he grins at old ladies my mother’s age you can tell they like it.

“Come here and blow in my face,” said my father.

“Go on with you,” said Gene. All of a sudden the smile was gone and he was irritated. He pushed past Pop, took the milk out of the fridge and started to drink out of the container.

“Use a glass.”

Gene burped. He’s a slob.

“You stink of beer,” said the old man. “Who buys beer for a kid your age?”

“I ain’t drunk,” said Gene.

“Not much. Your eyes look like two piss-holes in the snow.”

“Sure, sure,” said Gene. He lounged, he swivelled over to me and lifted my Players out of my shirt pocket. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” he said, taking out a smoke. I heard that one before.

“I don’t want to lose my temper,” said Dad, being patient with him as usual, “so don’t push your luck, sunshine.” The two of them eyeballed it, hard. Finally Gene backed down, looked away and fiddled with his matches. “I don’t ride that son of a bitch of a cage up and down for my health. I do it for you two,” Dad said. “But I swear to God, Gene, if you blow this year of school there’ll be a pair of new work boots for you on the back step, come July 1. Both of you know my rules. Go to school, work, or pack up. I’m not having bums put their feet under my table.”

“I ain’t scared of work,” said Gene. “Anyways, school’s a pain in the ass.”

“Well, you climb in the cage at midnight with three hours of sleep and see if that ain’t a pain in the ass. Out there nobody says, please do this, please do that. It ain’t school out there, it’s life.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t go to the mine. The mine sucks.”

“Just what the hell do you think you’d do?”

“He’d open up shop as a brain surgeon,” I said. Of course, Gene took a slap at me and grabbed at my shirt. He’s a tough guy. He wasn’t really mad, but he likes to prevent uppityness.

“You go to bed!” the old man hollered. “You ain’t helping matters.”

So off I went. I could hear them wrangling away even after I closed my door. You’d wonder how my mother does it, but she sleeps through it all. I think she’s just so goddamn tired of the three of us she’s gone permanently deaf to the sound of our voices. She just don’t hear us any more.

The last thing I heard before I dropped off was Pop saying: “I’ve rode that cage all my life, and take it from me,