The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [47]
Schwartz wrapped the towel around his waist, found the letter—it radiated energy into the darkness—and wended his way around lockers and benches to the whirlpool room. He flipped a switch: a bare, cord-dangled bulb cast wobbling dusty light into the room. He preferred total darkness in the whirlpool, but he needed to be able to see his fate. He flipped another switch. After a beat the whirlpool gave a reluctant shudder and groan, and the water began to churn, kicking up an odor of stagnant chlorine.
He dropped his towel and climbed gingerly into the tub, positioning his lower back before the push of a jet. His chest hair waved to the surface like marine flora straining toward the light. What this school needs, he thought, is a full-time masseuse. He allowed himself a brief understanding of the masseuse: her merciless hands probed his neck muscles; her breath fluttered warmly in his ear; through the thin fabric of her blouse a nipple pressed, perhaps on purpose, against his shoulder blade. The fantasy went nowhere; his penis stayed dormant beneath the water, curled in on itself like a small brown snail.
When next he glanced at his watch, it read 3:09. He liked it to run forty-two minutes fast—a gently irrational habit, like wearing your watch into the whirlpool—which meant it was nearly 2:30. If he wanted some good working hours before dawn, he needed to head upstairs, throw in a dip, start writing. Heat and steam were loosening the envelope glue; all he needed to do was flick up the flap and peek inside. Instead he leaned out of the tub and turned on the old paint-splattered radio that rested on the cracked tile floor. He sank back into the water and listened to classic rock as the corners of the envelope softened and curled.
It’s no big deal, he thought. If it doesn’t work out, there’s always next year. A year means nothing in the long haul. You’ll go back to Chicago, work as a paralegal, volunteer at the circuit court. Sure, you studied for the LSAT for two full years, but you can always study more. You’ll scrape together the cash for a rich kids’ prep course and nail the goddamned thing to the wall. You’ll win in the end, because you’ll refuse to lose. You’re Mike Schwartz.
But that was precisely the problem: he was Mike Schwartz. Everyone expected him to succeed, no matter what the arena, and so failure, even temporary failure, had ceased to be an option. No one would understand, not even Henry. Especially Henry. The myth that lay at the base of their friendship—the myth of his own infallibility—would be shattered.
“Looks like April’s comin’ in like a lion,” the wee-hours DJ was saying. “Heavy snowfall in Ogfield and Yammersley counties right now. It should reach the Westish area within the hour, so plan on a messy commute. So much for global warming, hey?”
Schwartz checked his watch, subtracted forty-two: almost five o’clock. He hadn’t wasted so many good hours, at least while sober, in years. Seized by a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to Henry, he hauled himself from the tub, felt his way through the dark locker room to his stack of folded clothes, and pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans.
“G’mornin’.” Henry picked up on the second ring, sounding only a little groggy. It was part of their routine; Schwartz could call Henry at any time, or vice versa, and the other would answer quickly and casually, ready for whatever, never mentioning the oddness of the hour. Because what was sleep, what was time, what was darkness, compared to the work they had to do? Usually, of course, it was Schwartz who did the calling.
He settled back into the tub. “Skrimmer,” he said. “Feeling better?”
Henry stifled a yawn. “I guess so. Where