A Dangerous Man

– Would it be cool if we said hi to him?

The other one turns his face to me.

– Maybe get an autograph?

Uh.

The guy with the bottle holds up his hands.

– Like, we know you have a job to do and he’s just hanging out. But? After he’s done rolling?

I look past them to Miguel. He craps out. I look back at the guy.

– I guess I’d.

– Great, man. Thanks. We won’t be a pain.

They don’t wait for me to finish saying that I guess I’d have to ask, they just walk up behind Miguel and tap him shyly on the shoulder.

– Hey, hey. Sorry to bother you, Mike. We just. Man. Congratulations. And thanks for last year.

– You’re not bothering me, man. S’cool. And thanks.

– Yeah, yeah. Hey, any chance we could get a couple autographs?

– Sure. S’cool.

Miguel grabs a couple cocktail napkins from the waitress who’s been standing by to take his and Jay’s orders, pulls a pen from inside his jacket and scribbles his name.

– Man, thanks. You’re the coolest, man. Good luck this year.

Miguel shakes both their hands.

– Thanks, guys.

And the floodgates open. The crowd flows, its center point shifting from the table to Miguel. And I suddenly realize that all the whispering and pointing at the table hasn’t been about Miguel’s money or Jay’s antics, it’s been about Miguel.

I start moving into the crowd and I hear voices. I hear MVP. I hear first round. I hear 6 million. I hear gold medal.

Jay’s face pops up in front of me. He’s got the three girls from the Rain line.

– Scarface, yo. Grab my boy. We’re moving this party to the Spearmint Rhino.

And he’s plowing his way out, towing the girls.

I put a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. He turns from signing another autograph.

– Jay said I should get you out.

He nods.

– Yeah. S’cool, let’s blow before it gets uncool.

Someone produces a disposable camera and I turn my head at the last second to avoid having my face photographed alongside Miguel’s. I put my left arm over his shoulder, start making room with my right, and lead him out of the crowd. We dodge a couple people coming over to see what’s up and Miguel picks up his pace, striding toward the exit. Behind us I hear a few people chanting USA! USA! USA! And the dots connect.

I don’t have a TV, but I do pick up a paper sometimes. Miguel Arenas. Star of Stanford’s 2003 College World Series-winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Star of the USA’s 2004 Olympic gold medal-winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Out of school at the end of his junior year, the New York Mets’ first round pick in this year’s Major League draft. First pick overall. Number one.

I watch Miguel’s back as he weaves smoothly through the packed casino. And now I know what’s familiar about him. It’s not his face or his accomplishments that I know him from. It’s his walk, his grace. He moves like me. The way I was meant to move. The way I still move in my dreams. The good ones anyway.

I FOLLOW UNCLE Fester as he stumbles away and kick him in the asshole again. He screams and reaches back, but my next kick is already on the way. It lands on his fingers and his pinkie pops out of joint. He’s reeling around now, reaching down between his legs with one hand, grabbing at his anus, and waving the other hand in the air, his pinkie sticking out at a right angle to the rest of his fingers. I grab the tail of his T-shirt and yank it up, dragging his arms up over his head. I push him to his knees and kick him three more times on the asshole and he flops forward, crying, blood starting to seep through the seat of his pants.

WE’RE ROLLING IN the Olds, cruising from the Palms to the Rhino. From the frying pan to the fire, Vegas style.

Miguel is up front with me. One of the girls, I think it’s the schoolteacher, in his lap. Her legs are getting tangled in the stick shift and I keep having to push them to the side. It happens again and she takes her tongue out of Miguel’s mouth.

– Sorry. Am I in your way? Sorry. Here.

She wiggles around until she’s straddling Miguel’s lap. He takes advantage of having his mouth free for a second and has a word with Jay.

– Screw the Rhino, let’s hit some more tables.

Jay is in the backseat with the other two girls. He’s been making out with both and talked them into kissing each other, but he was disappointed by the little peck on the lips they shared.

– No, yo. Like, kiss. Let’s see it, get some tongue in there.

The girls start frenching.

Miguel slaps Jay’s knee.

– Hear me, man?

Jay keeps his eyes on the girls as their tongues slide in and out of each other’s mouths.

– I hear you, yo, but I’m a little distracted.

The schoolteacher is chewing on Miguel’s ear as he talks to Jay.

– Get undistracted. I want to roll some more.

Jay takes his eyes from the show and puts his face close to Miguel’s.

– Yo, that was a hundred G’s and change back there. Let’s take a break.

– Fuck the hundred G’s. Last hurrah, man. Got another hundred to get even with. I want to roll.

Jay puts a finger in his face.

– No. We’re taking a break. Yo.

He points at the necking girls.

– Check this shit out. Get into this shit. Get your head in this game, yo.

Miguel nods.

– Yeah, yeah, man. S’cool. You’re right.

– Yo.

Jay claps his hands.

– I know what this party needs. This party needs some x. You ladies know where we can score some x?

The schoolteacher in Miguel’s lap detaches her mouth from his ear.

– I’m from Flagstaff. But if you can get some that would be great.

Jay separates the girls in the back.

– Ladies?

They whisper in each other’s ears, then the one in the silver top gives him their verdict.

– No, but we’ll totally take it if you can get it. But don’t think you’re going to get us in a three-way.

– Yo. A three-way? What’s that?

She laughs.

Jay’s eyes go wide with innocence.

– No, seriously. What’s a three-way?

He puts his face close to hers.

– Explain it to me.

She laughs.

– Nooo.