Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [26]
finally live with that
voice
is probably not yet sitting
there.
her husband of the
future
will finally understand
the horrible reality of
that voice
(remember,
the voice is the window
to the soul)
and he will think:
oh my god
oh my god
oh my god
what have I
done?
won’t
she
ever
shut up?
one out in the minor leagues
men on 2nd and 3rd.
first base was open.
one out.
we gave Parker an
intentional walk.
we had a 3- to- 2
lead.
last half of the
9th, Simpson on the
mound.
Tanner up.
Simpson let it go.
it was low and
inside.
Tanner tapped it
to our shortstop,
DeMarco.
perfect double play
ball.
DeMarco gloved it,
flipped it to Johnson
our 2b man.
Johnson touched 2nd
then stood there
holding the ball as
the runners were
steaming around
the bases.
I screamed at Johnson
from the dugout:
“DO SOMETHING WITH THE
GODDAMNED BALL!”
the whole stadium was
screaming.
Johnson just stood there
a funny look on his face
with the ball.
then
he fell forward
still holding the ball.
he was
stretched out there as
the winning run
scored.
the dugout emptied
as we ran
to Johnson.
we turned him
over.
he wasn’t moving.
he looked
dead.
the trainer took
his pulse and
looked at me.
then he started
mouth-to-mouth.
the announcer asked
if there was a
doctor in the
stands.
two of them came
down.
one of them
was drunk.
the tiny crowd started
coming
out on the field.
the ushers pushed
them back.
somebody took the
ball out of Johnson’s
hand.
they worked on him
for a long time.
there was a
camera flash.
then another.
then the doctor
stood up:
“it’s no good.
he’s gone.”
the stretcher
came out and
we loaded Johnson
onto the stretcher.
somebody threw a
warm-up
jacket
over his face.
the stadium was
almost deserted as
they carried Johnson
off the field
through
the dugout
and into
the locker room.
I didn’t go
in.
I took a cup of water
from the cooler
and
sat alone on the bench.
Toby the batboy
came over.
“what’s going to happen now, Mr.
Quinn?” he asked.
“our 2nd baseman is
dead, Toby.”
“who you going to play
there now?”
“I don’t think that’s
important right now,” I
told him.
“yes, it is, Mr. Quinn!
we’re 2 games out of
first place
going into September!”
“I’ll think of something,
Toby …”
then I got up and went
through the door
to the locker room,
Toby following right
behind.
the little girls hissed
since my last name was Fuch, he said to Raymond, you can
believe the school yard was tough: they put itching
powder down my neck, threw gravel at me, stung me
with rubber bands in class, and outside they called
me names, well, one name mainly, over and over,
and on top of all that my parents were poor, I wore
cardboard in my shoes to fill in the holes in the
soles, my pants were patched, my shirts thread-
bare; and even my teachers ganged up
on me, they slammed my
palm with rulers and sent me to the principal’s office as
if I was really guilty of something;
and, of course, the abuse kept coming from my classmates;
I was stoned, beaten, pissed on;
the little girls hissed and stuck their tongues out
at me …
Fuch’s wife smiled sadly at Raymond: my poor darling husband had such
a terrible childhood!
(she was so beautiful it almost stunned one to look at
her.)
Fuch looked at Raymond: hey, your glass is empty.
yeah, said Raymond.
Fuch touched a button and the English butler silently
glided in. he nodded respectfully to Raymond and in his
beautiful accent asked, another drink, sir?
yes, please, Raymond answered.
the butler went off to prepare the drink.
what hurt most, of course, continued Fuch, was the name-
calling.
Raymond asked, have you never forgotten it?
I did for a while, but then strangely I began to
miss the abuse …
the butler returned carrying Raymond’s
drink on a silver tray.
here is your drink, sir, said the butler.
thank you, said Raymond, taking it off the tray.
o.k., Paul, Fuch said to the butler, you can
start now.
now? asked the butler.
now, came the answer.