Slide - Kyle Beachy [45]
“I'm building a building,” he said. Frown. Pause. “That sounds stupid. Where's your van?”
“It's Saturday.”
“Yeah duh. That's why there were cartoons on all morning.”
“I don't work Saturdays.”
Out of nowhere I remembered the exhilaration of stopping at a McDonald's with a Playland, all those wonderful plastic balls, the Hamburglar burger fort with a ladder entrance. Happy Meals.
“My dad works on Saturday,” Ian said. “On Saturdays Mom used to let me cook my own waffles so she could sleep in.”
In his little hands was an erector set that looked circa 1960s, old enough to be worth something maybe. All chipped metal and straight lines. For me it had been Lincoln Logs and Legos and then Capsela. This was old and metal and rigid, unforgiving, from a time long before my own. Had toys returned to some golden era without my knowing it?
“What kind of building?” I asked.
“I think a courthouse or a shopping mall. Something important. My dad brought this home for me yesterday. You can help if you want. Here. Put this piece on the top. Feels good.”
And it did feel good, oddly therapeutic. I attached a second piece onto the first. Ian nodded.
“My dad likes me to have things to do when he's at work, because he doesn't want me to be one of those kids raised by TV”
A cartoony soundtrack came from inside the dark house, the jingles and crashes and raccoon voices of characters I didn't recognize. I remembered the Snorks—just Smurfs that lived underwater. Gummi Bears, bouncing here and there and … Good Lord, how I used to adore Saturday morning cartoons.
The boy had stopped building and was looking at me. “How come you're here?”
“Just to say hello.”
This was sufficient. Ian nodded and returned to the building. I watched his face distort in concentration, then straighten when a piece fit the way he wanted. As soon as one piece was attached he reached for another. I looked through the open front door at the squalor inside. The little hands that reached for another building piece were browned with dust and covered in boyhood abrasions, tipped with the black of fingernail grime. And not a single care in this kid's countenance. Just the repeated nod: approval, comprehension, confirmation.
“Enjoy this,” I said. “More, enjoy how much you enjoy this. This might be hard, but that's my advice. Right now everything for you is singular.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“Look. You're sitting on the porch, playing with this erector set. And you enjoy it, right? Sure you do. It's simple. What I'm saying is, don't take this simplicity for granted. Enjoy it.”
Are you smart?”
“I mean. Technically.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
I brought my fingertips together in a chin-level steeple, like maybe the physical posturing of thought would aid the real thing. I could hear the hyena children at their ongoing game of tag on the corner.
“It's not always easy,” I said. “There are gray regions.”
“Dad says if you can't say something smart you should just do everyone a favor and shut up. What's your last name?”
“Mays,” I said. “Like Willie.”
“Willie who?”
“Willie Mays, the old ballplayer. Twenty-something-time all-star. Six-hundred-and-something career home runs. Lifetime average somewhere north of three hundred.”
“Was he white or black?”
“It doesn't matter. He made that catch you always see in deep center field. Sprinting toward the wall and catching over his shoulder. Then firing sidearm back to the infield.”
“Oh yeah. Black.”
I picked up one of the pieces and snapped it onto the building's side. Then another, and then several more. Soon Ian moved away from the building and let me take over.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Wait here.”
He got up and carried the unfinished building inside, then returned with the cheap baseball gloves and ball. Once we moved into position, I made sure this time to ground myself in