The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [17]
I placed the card back into my jacket pocket and resumed clicking my pen. The door of the center opened, and the room filled with a gust of frigid air. In hobbled a ragged, old man. His face was worn, weathered like cracked leather. His eyes were dull and gray, sunk into his face. He looked like some old prospector who lived his life on the edge of humanity back during the years when the West was wild. Multiple layers of clothing, all of them stained with what looked like dirt or grease, made a patchwork outfit that shielded him from winter’s bite. His scraggly beard was matted and tangled in clumps and knots. A green stocking cap covered his head, the top pulled up high like a cartoon elf. His pants were filthy, splattered with road salt toward the bottom and well into the later stages of fray. Slung over his shoulder was a stuffed sack, bulging with lumps on every side. He pushed his forearm across his face and snorted.
“Good afternoon,” I said with a big beaming smile. I was clean, well dressed, and ready to sign for such an obvious charitable cause.
This was his lucky day, and I knew it. He didn’t respond to my greeting, but walked over to the desk in a side-to-side motion, continually smearing his hands on the sides of his outfit as he came. He took my offered pen, hunched over the table, and began to sign.
“Will you be dining with us tonight, or just here for some groceries?” I asked in a saccharine-sweet voice.
The ragged man coughed, finished scribbling his name, then let the pen drop. He mumbled to himself, wiping his hands on his sides again.
“Will you be eating with us today, sir?” I repeated.
“Yeah, yeah. What ya havin’?” He traced the architecture of the room as he spoke, like an animal measuring its cage.
“We are having yummy roasted chicken with noodles,” I said. Then I added in the same camp counselor voice I used earlier, “It’s mmm-mmm good.”
“Shit, ain’t as if it matters….” His voice trailed off and he returned to mumbling to himself.
“Well, Phyllis and the girls are fantastic cooks, and I’m sure you’ll love it.” I beamed back at him.
It was as if I were Willy Wonka. Everything I said was uttered with an über-excited ring, as if eating chicken and noodles were orgasmic. “Well, you certainly seem excited about it,” the ragged man said. “Can I have my tickets now?”
“Oh, right.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed for the meal tickets. I felt a baseball card’s stiff, cardboard backing, and I pulled it out instead.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but, I am a professional baseball player. I pitch in the minor leagues with the San Diego Padres.” I’m surprised I didn’t brush my nails on my shirt after I said it.
“Uh huh.”
“I brought some of my cards with me. I can sign one for you if you like.”
“You are a professional baseball player?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir, I am,” I said, as if I were allowing him admission to a very elite club.
The ragged man reluctantly took the card from my hand, looked at both sides as if it were a shiny rock, then tossed it back down in front of me. I watched the card as it twirled down and spun on the table.
“There,” he said, as if he had done me a favor.
“Do you, uh…do you want me to sign one for you? A lot of people like that kind of thing.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I am a real pro athlete.”
“No.”
“I’ll go ahead and sign one for you and you can give it to your wife or son or…”
His eyes came out of the dark clefts of his dense silver eyebrows. His face, so worn and beaten, still had such intensity. “Look at me kid. What in the hell am I going to do with a goddamn baseball card?”
“I, uh…I just thought it would make you feel good,” I said, and then smiled.
“Make me feel good?” he heckled. “I live on the goddamn street!”
“Well, I know, but—”
“Do you know why?” he interrupted. I did not, and my blank expression proved it.
“’Course you don’t, why the hell would you bother to find out?”
“…”
“My wife got sick. I lost my job, and our insurance went with it. With no insurance,