The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [49]
“What’s got Slap-nuts all wound up now?” Rosco asked.
“Slappy is pissed because he thinks the other guys set him up. He says they lied to him about giving him a ride just to break his heart,” the stoned-looking fellow said. He was like Slappy’s missing half, cool and collected, almost lethargic in comparison.
“Pshhh…. Fuck. No Maddog. Why would you say broken hearted? I mean,…look I’m just saying…” Slappy spoke in rapid, spasmodic fire—recovery breath, finger point, continue. “I’m just saying, you don’t tell people you’re going to give them a ride, then say, ‘Oh no, wait, we would rather take this guy with us, even though we told you we’d take you.’”
“What are you saying, Slap? You don’t want to ride with us?” Rosco said.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with us? Not good enough?” Pickles echoed.
“What? No. Come on. Actually”—finger point—“that’s exactly how I felt!” He was an emotional bell curve. “But you guys don’t really feel that way, which is why I don’t feel bad about telling you, ’cause you’re understanding. You’re real friends, not like those false ones out there.” Slappy looked out the window with a hopeful face as if those he christened assholes might still return to pick him up. “You know I love you. You guys are my boys.”
“We do have big ones,” Rosco said.
“Big ones!” Pickles repeated in a singsong voice.
“I know you got big ones. Guys with big ones don’t tell a person you’re going to give them a ride, then”—he put his hands up to his head and made quotations while switching to a mocking voice—“suddenly forget you offered one. You just don’t do that to a friend, right?”
“They did it on purpose Slap. Those bastards,” Maddog said, stirring the pot while smiling at Slappy like a big, contented dog.
“I know, right? Those fuckers!” He looked out the window again.
“What’s Slappy bitching about now?” Tiny Mexicali asked, having gotten on while the conversation was in motion. Tiny hopped around the system quite a bit last year, and I knew him from spending overlapping days on teams. He spent the bulk of his time with the crew already on board the USS Lake Elsinore and entered the conversation with ease. He was a big guy, who seemed to thrive on slamming Slappy.
“Slappy says there’s a conspiracy to screw him out of a ride to Lake Elsinore,” Rosco said.
“No, no, no, I didn’t say conspiracy, I said—”
“You would say that Slap. Jesus, you’re such a baby.” Tiny wasted no time, coming on to the scene like a sledgehammer.
“Me? Oh, okay. You were the guy crying about how you’re friends weren’t really friends because they didn’t offer you a ride at all.”
“Yeah, but I’m not throwing a fit about it now, am I?”
“I’m not throwing a…who is throwing a…what? You wouldn’t even know…fucking Maddog,” Slappy moaned, jerking around at Maddog who sat placidly as if nothing were wrong.
“Look at you, you’re a mess. Grow up Slappy,” Tiny continued hammering, passing out a mischievous grin to the rest of the audience, their cue to join in.
“Whatever, you fat Aztec Eskimo. You just don’t have any friends,” Slappy countered. Group laughter bloomed from the remark, even from Tiny, who actually did look a tad Aztec and Eskimo.
“Whoa, that’s just mean spirited, Slappy.” Tiny feigned real pain, then started to squeeze his love handles, just to check.
“Wow, Slap, wow. You’re destroying this team before game one,” Rosco said, hissing the words. “You’re a cancer.”
“Me? I’m destroying…what? No, no, no.” His finger shot up again. “The cancers are the false friends who promise rides but then show how fake they are by forgetting.”
“Those bastards,” Maddog strummed.
“I know, right? Fuck them!” Slappy turned and nodded at Maddog who looked exactly the same.
“They don’t have big ones, that’s for damn sure.”
“Heck no, they don’t.” Pickles and Rosco high-fived.
“Still bro, calling me fat and a racial slur? That’s harsh. I’ve got a fragile ego, I don’t know if I can pitch