track until I find one that suits my mood: semi-suicidal, but chemically numbed. “Shipbuilding” seems to have it covered.
This is good. This is just fine. More to the point, this is as good as it gets for me anymore. Demerol, some tunes, and the hope of dreamless sleep. That’s the mountaintop for me. How the mighty have fallen.
Used to be the mountain was swinging a bat, smacking a ball, watching it fly away, knowing it was a sure hit, and sprinting around the bases. That was a long time ago. That was another world. Baseball. I haven’t played baseball since I was a kid. Shit, I can’t even watch baseball. A bottle of Demerol wouldn’t get me high enough to handle a ball game. I try to watch a baseball game anymore and I just end up rocking back and forth on the couch, arms wrapped around myself, whining.
The Demerol rushes.
I melt into the couch.
I SIT ON the couch with the little rule booklet, trying to figure out how it works. The Kid comes back into the room. There are strands of spaghetti in his hair and a mess of sauce on his face and neck. He’s carrying a couple Buds. I look at the beers.
– Where’d you get those?
– My dad’s.
– Won’t he get pissed?
– He won’t notice.
He hands one to me. I open it and take a sip. It’s good. Only after the first sip do I remember how long it’s been since I last had a drink. Shit. Fucked that up. Oh well. Gonna have to start from scratch anyway, may as well finish it. I take another sip.
The Kid sits down next to me and points at the booklet.
– You ready?
I toss the rules to the floor.
– No way. There is no way I can play this. I’m terrible at this shit.
– I thought baseball was your thing.
– Yeah, baseball, the real game, that was my thing. But this is different.
– But you were good?
– Yeah. Yeah, I was good.
– So this’ll be easy.
– Look, can’t we just go out back and have a little catch or something. I mean, if we’re gonna play let’s
He pushes open the curtain to show me the heavy rain outside.
– C’mon, just try it.
I groan, but I pick up my controller and he turns on the game.
He pushes some buttons and team logos start appearing on the TV.
– Who you want to be?
– Giants of course.
He pushes more buttons.
– Guess I’ll have to be the Dodgers.
I groan again.
– Don’t do that, man. You know you’re gonna beat me. Don’t do it with the Dodgers.
He laughs.
– Can’t take it? Here, you can play a Giants All Star club. Ott, Mays, McCovey, Mathewson.
– No. No. Just give me the team.
– You want the last World Series team?
– No, I never got to see them play. Give me, give me that team that almost made the Wild Card. The one that had the one-game playoff with the Mets.
He pushes buttons.
– OK, you’re up.
We play. I suck. By the third inning he’s ahead 15-0.
He hits another homer and I throw my controller at the floor.
– This sucks!
He’s laughing.
– OK. OK. Come on. We’ll play something else. I got something that’s more your style.
– Fine. Whatever.
He gets up from the couch. I pick up the rule booklet and try to figure out what he did to make his guy slide into my second baseman and take him out.
– Here we go.
I look up. He’s over by the TV. He has a plastic gun in each hand.
– First person shooter. That’s more your style, right?
I run my fingers over the glossy pages of the booklet.
– I don’t know, man. Let’s just keep playing ball.
– No, you were right. You suck. C’mon, you’ll be good at this.
He lifts one of the guns and points it at his head.
– C’mon, you’re a natural. Bang! Bang!
He pulls the plastic trigger, and smiling, turns around and shows me the huge hole where the back of his head used to be.
WHEN THE PHONE rings I’m sprawled on the couch in my underwear, one foot on the floor, resting on a cold, half-eaten pizza, a half dozen half-empty one-liter water bottles jumbled around me. I’ve been zonked on the couch for over forty-eight hours. The first Dem I took didn’t keep the dreams away, so I took two more. Those were so sweet I decided to keep going.
The phone is still ringing. It rings and rings and rings until I figure out it’s not an effect Moby mixed into “One of These Mornings.” I come to, my nostrils clogged with snot, a huge gob of mucus at the back of my throat. I try to stand, my foot smearing the cold pizza onto the carpet, and get hit with a head rush that sends me dizzy to my knees. I hawk and spit the yellow wad of mucus onto the pizza box and crawl to the cell lying in the middle of the dirty shag carpet. The number of the incoming call is blocked, but only two people have this number and they both have blocks. The phone keeps ringing as I fumble the top off one of the water bottles and chug it down, easing the dryness of my lips and tongue and washing away the foul taste of my own phlegm.
Still the phone rings. I answer it.
– Yeah, I’m here. Branko?
– No.
It’s David. David, who detests talking on the phone.
– Yeah. Hey. What’s up?
– The phone was ringing a very long time.
I can see the look on his face as he says it, eyebrows pinched together.
– You sound hoarse. Are you unwell?
– No, fine. Just I was in the bathroom. Sorry.
– No. No. I am sorry to disturb you. My wife would not like me to mention this, but I turn the phone off when I am in the bathroom. So I will not be distracted. Irregularity is one of the curses of growing older.
The only thing I have to add to this conversation would be to tell him that the Demerol I’ve been popping will keep me from crapping for the next several days. But I don’t think he wants to hear that so I just grunt instead.
He gives an embarrassed chuckle.
– You do not want to hear this. No one wants to hear the digestive problems of an older man except for another older man. I can tell you only this, roughage. Every day. Your later years will be so much more
