Pablo clamped his teeth together to keep from answering. “Does that work for you and Puppy?”
“No. Our failures are good road maps.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay. It’s true. But you’re smarter and more ambitious.”
“So we always thought.”
“Maybe not that much smarter.” Zelda grinned. “But don’t quit, jerk. You have no other friends but us, you strike out in love and you’re pushing forty. What else you got going?”
“What if I fail?” he whispered.
“You won’t.”
“You’re so sure?”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “One of us has to do something. You have to succeed for all of us.”
Pablo cried silently for a moment. Finally, he asked, “And how have you been?”
That was always the mystery of friendship. You wanted to share something with someone you loved, but if they were going through shit, was it fair to dump on them? Sometimes you had to take turns, especially when they might be the father of your child.
“Terrific. Can I have the rest of your donut?”
He made pig noises and she kissed him on the forehead, leaving jelly on his eyebrows.
• • • •
PABLO WIPED MUSTARD off his chin as the Needleman’s waiter beamed expectantly.
“I’ve never had a kasha knish.”
“Like something an angel would make, right?” The waiter persisted until Pablo acknowledged the pagan concept of angels serving deli food after death, indicating he needed more time to decide the next course. The waiter’s opinion of Pablo’s decisiveness as a customer dropped as he shuffled behind the counter.
Too defensive, Pablo scribbled in his notebook.
Dentist isn’t enough.
Teeth are taken for granted.
What isn’t?
Bold bold bold
Be what you are but different, he murmured Grandma’s Eighth Insight.
Diaz waved over the waiter, ignoring the beeping watch for the second reminder of his nine AM patient.
“Pastrami or corned beef?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Pablo said pleasantly. “Just give me a second. Those gentlemen near the door, how often do they come here?”
“Every day.”
“Every single day?”
The waiter was offended. “Why wouldn’t they? Best pastrami and corned beef in the country. Not that you’d know…”
“Give me pastrami on white with mayo.”
The waiter shuddered. “That would not be possible. You will have it on rye with mustard or you must leave.”
“Fine,” Pablo muttered, staring at the laughing men. He crunched on a pickle, imagining winged cherubs in a huge bowl of mustard, and wandered over to their table.
“Good evening.”
The men grew silent.
“I’m at the other table. I’ve been here before.” Pablo slid over a chair. “I like the food, too. Dr. Pablo Diaz. I’m a dentist.”
Their suspicious eyes were cold, “go away” blinking over their heads. Pablo’s social skills were never great and it took him a minute to figure out what to say.
“I’m getting the pastrami.” He scanned their table, settling on a bulky sandwich. “What’s that?”
“Brisket,” muttered the thin man with wispy hair.
Pablo sniffed. “Real beef?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Not much cattle left after the war.”
“What war?” grumbled the chubby man with blotchy skin.
It took Pablo a moment to process that; Puppy’s old DV baseball players popped into his head.
“The war with the Allahs.”
“Finally we kicked their asses,” the man said, earning pleased nods from his friends.
Pablo frowned and gestured at a plate of brown kernels and bow-shaped noodles. “And that?’
“Kasha varnishkes.” The third man sighed.
“Where do you get it?”
“Russia’s best.”
Russia? The Caliphate of Russia?
“Mine’s from Warsaw,” the wispy haired man disagreed.
In the Caliphate of Bulanda.
“Nah, the best comes from Brooklyn. They get it from Jerusalem.” The chubby man’s blotches flared.
Jerusalem was ashes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The waiter stormed over. “Back to your table. These are regular customers since we opened in 2036 and they don’t get bothered.”
As the waiter prodded Pablo to the rear with the tray, the pastrami sandwich slid off. The old man’s hands blurred as he caught the food, tucking the meat between the bread with two lightning fingers and slamming the plate down in one motion.
“Rye bread. Mustard. The way it was meant to be,” he said gruffly.
Pablo peered at the neat sandwich, astonished. Everyone waited. He slowly chewed through his unease.
“Best in America,” Pablo said, very carefully. He waited until the waiter shuffled back behind the counter, then he threw a pickle toward the other table, which the blotchy-faced man snatched without even looking. Pablo fired a sour tomato; the wispy-haired gent plucked it out of the air. With a pitch that would’ve made Puppy proud, Pablo fired a pickle down the heart of their table; the three men simultaneously pulled apart the briny cucumber in equal thirds, munching away.
“No food throwing,” yelled the waiter.
Pablo smiled grimly. He would order dessert.
• • • •
PUPPY WAS LYING on his back in center field as large shuffling skeletons danced in a circle and chanted baseball songs. He didn’t recognize the lyrics or the language or the music. But they were definitely baseball songs since they wore baseball caps, which they waved triumphantly as, in turn, they stomped on his shoulder. This hurt intensely and he swam up through the overgrown grass, gagging as it filled his nostrils and mouth and ears; since when did he breathe through his ears? Was that why his head was floating off his body?
From the ceiling, Puppy looked down at the bed. He had a skull for a head. Mooshie grinned a skeletal smile, laughing insanely and reaching for his penis.
The pain remained past waking. Brushing his teeth hurt. Showering hurt. Lacing his sneakers hurt. Anything where he used his right shoulder hurt.
Ty had called an off-day practice, furious about yesterday’s 8-1 loss. It was all their fault. Playing with just six fielders versus the usual nine for the Falcons might’ve had something to do with it.
In the fourth inning, Cobb had gone into second with spikes high, gashing the Falcons shortstop, who took umbrage at having his thigh sliced like an AG steak, especially when the play wasn’t even close; Ty was out by five feet on the attempted steal. But he was angry he got a bad jump; the Falcons shortstop’s thigh seemed as
