The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [71]
Slappy sniffed out a towel, then commandeered a Magic Marker. He wrote out the message while four or five players leered over his shoulder, anxiously observing the inscription of each letter like school kids about to pull a senior prank. As soon as the advertisement was complete, Slappy chose the side of the bus with the most traffic lanes and ran the towel up like the Jolly Roger while his pirates played lookout.
The first car with potential had a cute blonde at the wheel. Some of the players started banging on the window glass, even yelling, as if the girl could hear them—it was probably for the best that she couldn’t. She casually looked over, then did a double take. She mouthed the words of the sign, daringly keeping her eyes on the road. The pirates continued to hoot and bang.
“Is she going to?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m not her.”
“I think she’s going to.”
“I hope so, she’s cute. She looks foreign.”
“Foreign chicks are so hot.”
The cute, foreign, blonde started talking aloud again.
“Who’s she talking to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there is another chick in there we can’t see. Two, hot, naughty foreign chicks!”
The passenger’s seat folded up, propelling the formerly sleeping form of a male counterpart. He was not happy, and his finger went up to prove it. He was not foreign either as the words he began angrily mouthing were easy to lip-read by such well-trained swearword translators as us.
Of course, this wouldn’t stand with the Lake Elsinore Pirates. We fired back with dozens of choice fingers. The car we were laying sexual siege to countered, defending itself with two middle fingers and a barrage of angry words we couldn’t hear. Nor could the vessel hear us screaming back, though I’m sure they got the gist.
The battle raged until someone on our side put his ass on the window. The car sped away at the sight of it, and the cheeks left a wide smudge on the glass. We were left pants down and boobless, cursing at the one that got away.
Life on the concrete seas is harsh. To survive, you must focus on the next prize, the next car of hot foreign boobies. “Hey guys, we got another one,” came a call from starboard. The boys tucked their fingers in, smoothed their hair back, and pulled their pants up. Faces returned to the glass, except the part with the smudge.
A small car, with tinted windows cracked oh so slightly, rolled up beside us. From the crack in the car’s window, long, wavy lady hair that framed a face mysteriously hidden by large sunglasses could be seen.
The banging and hooting started again. You’d think we were smart enough to know she couldn’t hear us. Or could she? Eyes hidden behind sunglasses coolly turned to peek through the crack in the window. She was looking at us—looking hard, more than looking. The sunglasses lingered longer than a person driving a car should let a gaze remain. She was good.
“Oh, she is totally going to.”
“She’s a vet. Look at that car control.”
The window went down a hair, low enough to see her smile and nothing more. The boys started clapping at her, giving her the thumbs-up, and cheering. Slappy shook the sign like a bull-fighter.
She gave a thumbs-up back, stirring the bus into a frenzy. Next, she put up one finger as if to say “Just a minute boys” and the dark, tinted windows went up.
“Oh my God, this girl is awesome!”
“She’s a professional. I’ll bet she lives for buses like ours!”
A moment later came the yell, “We’ve got action!”
All eyes went starboard. The window came down all the way, with full exposure.
It’s obvious we needed the sign since there was no way for us to scream out through the window glass, though that didn’t seem to stop us from trying. There was no way for the ladies to hear our hoots and cat calling—no way to vocalize our request for high-velocity boobies. A sign on a towel and pantomime was all we had. It made things interesting, even challenging. However, while we were happily up to the task of getting girls to oblige our requests, no one ever stopped to think about how to get them to stop.
Her face was