“Or consider you don’t care,” Pablo added. “Baseball historian isn’t the most respected job.”
“What do you think, they’ll send me back to the DV?” Puppy asked. His two oldest friends since he was thirteen frowned. They didn’t answer right away.
Zelda and Pablo left around eleven; he waved off their offer to clean up. Tomorrow was an off-day. Three games a week, one hundred and forty game season. Then baseball was done. D-O-N-E. Forever. F-O-R-E-V-E-R. He polished off the last of his Cedar Creek bourbon and worked on the opening game’s official report.
“An enthusiastic (the school-cutters boys had cheered) crowd (eight is a crowd, even excepting the two naked women frolicking in the bomb crater) came together as Family for the opening game of the 2098 baseball season. Harry the HG (he made up names for the holograms) pitched a strong game for the hometown Hawks, striking out six Falcons, who were shut down (and half asleep) by Harry’s tantalizing curve. Vernon Jackson, the Hawks slugging catcher (and the only one able to touch his toes) led his team’s charge with three hits.”
Puppy stared sadly at the notebook. He used to write endless pages when he first started. Volumes, epics, describing the weather, clouds, a rare bird sighting, quality of food, conversations of the fans, his own rambling insights, categorizing the HGs, critiquing the batters, comparing everyone to the greats of the past. He gave up when he realized absolutely no one cared anymore. Least of all, him.
Greta danced on his chest.
“Perhaps Puppy would like a girl?”
He peered suspiciously through the top of his bourbon glass. “I thought you just woke me up and ruined my mornings.”
Greta laughed. “I have nighttime functions.” Zelda, I really hate you now. “Asian girl with small breasts?”
“I don’t sex watch, thanks.”
“Everyone does.”
“Only to stimulate reproduction between married couples,” he recited mechanically.
Greta laughed dubiously. “Blonde girl, big ass?”
“I’m going to unplug you, Greta,” he threatened, standing up with a tipsy wobble.
“Latina? Curvy butt like Annette?”
“That’s it.” He chased Greta back into the bedroom and slammed the door. “Stay.”
“I can go through walls,” she replied haughtily.
He half-dozed during Grandma’s “Sweet Dreams My Darlings” sign-off at one AM, when the vidnews shut down for the night. Grandma had instituted this on the Day of Surrender when the country collapsed into an hysterical coma after losing World War Three to the Islamic Empire. Yes it’s over. Yes we lost thirteen million. Yes we will survive, and yes we will flourish again. Every night for the past twenty-five years, Grandma has ended the day by reading a banal story to a different group of children before tucking them into bed.
Tonight’s story was about K’ana the Komb and the importance of grooming your hair. If you don’t look good for yourself, My Darlings, how can you expect your fellow siblings to respect you? And if we don’t respect each other, how can we have a loving Family? There was also some shit about K’ana taking an unwanted bath in the washing machine and losing a couple teeth which still made her a good Komb because it takes all kinds of Kombs to make a Family.
Fortunately Puppy stumbled into a hole of dreamless sleep. Around six AM, Greta danced onto his chest. Little bitch, he mumbled sleepily, sprawled in his leather recliner.
“Oh my, Puppy is a naughty boy, he has found a new toy.”
Puppy punched his fist through her head and staggered toward the bathroom. He tripped over a leg and squinted unsteadily over his left shoulder. A beefy guy around sixty in shabby clothes lay curled up on the floor, clutching an empty beer bottle and snoring like a thunderstorm.
“Isn’t he cute?” Greta sang.
Puppy peered at the sleeping man. His broad face must’ve been handsome before the fleshiness swallowed the cheeks and chin. A snore paused, as if thinking all on its own before rumbling serenely. Something about the man was familiar. Too familiar. Puppy grew angry.
“Hey.” He poked the guy’s muscular arm. “Mister.” The snoring deepened. Puppy pushed harder. “Hey.”
The man sat up with a bewildered look which quickly gave way to irritation. “Who the hell are you?”
“The guy whose apartment you’re in.”
“Huh.” The man squinted, trying to focus. Not with those glazed eyes. Reinhardt’s Rum, Puppy decided. Greases your liver right out your butt in no time at all.
“Yeah. Huh.” Puppy tried tugging the man upright, but he weighed a ton. Puppy slipped to his knee, their faces eye level. Putrid breath raked Puppy’s nostrils.
“How’d you get in here?” Maybe he’d forgot to lock the door.
“I don’t know.” The man’s puzzlement seemed genuine. Reinhardt’s usually got the brain soon after the liver. “Where’s the can?”
“What?”
“The can.”
“Of what?”
“Of the can,” the man shouted belligerently. “Can. Shit, piss.”
He’d just cleaned the toilet. His sparkling tiles were a thing of the past because the old rummy staggered down the hall, lurched into the bathroom and retched all over the toilet. Puppy watched in disgust as the man used a white hand towel to wipe away the vomit.
“Do you mind?”
The guy slammed the door. Tinkle tinkle little pee. Puppy quickly made himself coffee. After more farts, belches and several absolutely inhuman noises Puppy didn’t want to begin to understand, the man weaved into the living room, dropping his smelly body onto the couch. He drained the last of the bourbon and made a face.
“Cheap stuff.”
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting guests.”
The man glanced disdainfully around the messy room and put his feet on the table with a majestic wave of his thick hands. “Got any beer?”
“I think you had enough.” Puppy laid a cup of coffee on the table.
“I didn’t have anything. They wouldn’t let me drink in the hospital.”
Finally, some facts. “Which hospital?”
“Dallas Memorial. I had the cancer.” The man sipped the coffee and half-spit it back. “What is this?”
Puppy’s eyes blazed. “Coffee.”
“Sucks.”
“Goes along with the cheap bourbon.”
“Yup.” The man peered.
