The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [94]
In the bathroom, I steadied myself with one hand, and relieved myself with the other. Trying to take a whizz on a tour bus is a lot like surfing. It’s a delicate blend of balance and stream control. Not that it really matters if I miss, since by trip’s end, the bathroom would be covered in pee from those less concerned than myself, but I was always taught to have pride in everything you do.
As I piddled, I heard scuffling outside the door. A thump hit the door, laughter, and then things calmed down. I tapped the last drop out, zipped up, and grabbed the door handle—it wouldn’t open. It was being held in place. “Very funny guys. Oh no, I’m locked in the bathroom and I can’t get out! Come on, this was a tired act in college.”
“Hold on buddy, we gotta finish this hand; then we’ll let you out.”
I was pissed when I heard that, no pun intended. I shouldn’t have to explain the short temper a person has when he’s not slept for days. “Seriously you guys? What the fuck,” I barked. I punched the door.
“Don’t be a dick, dude, just wait.”
I heard more commotion outside and some laughing. That didn’t sound like a card game to me.
“Okay—just watch your feet when you come out.” The bus casino allowed me to exit.
I pushed the door open cussing under my breath. I looked down at the floor as instructed. Bottles with dip spit had collected there, as well as some wadded up junk food wrappers and a scooter wheel. There was nothing to look out for, nothing that wasn’t usually there. I took a step forward, eyes scanning the dimly lit floor of the bus. Still nothing.
“What the fuck am I supposed to be watching out—” The collective gasp of the team pulled my eyes up. There, about a foot from my face, dangling from the ceiling was the spread ass cheeks and ball sack of Jon Dalton. He was hanging from the bus’s luggage racks completely naked, and I was on a collision course with his coin purse. One more step and he could have knighted me.
“Jesuscriss!” I blurted, and fell backward, tripping on the scooter wheel and falling into Woot. Everyone on the bus had scuffled back into viewing position and was now bursting with laughter. Dalton dismounted, landing in the aisle. It turned out he wasn’t naked—he had on socks.
“Spider-Man!” a patch of players shouted. Dalton was laughing as he pointed at me, “You just got Spider-Manned, bud.” He had one hand twirling his junk while he said it, as if he were thanking his sidekick for another job well done.
“I have no idea what to say to that,” I said.
Woot pushed me back to my feet. Guys were still laughing, and I started to chuckle despite myself. I made my way back to my seat, completely unconcerned with anything on the floor. As I went some of the team smacked me in the ass for being a good sport. Ox smacked me so hard my ass almost fell off. Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep for the rest of the trip.
Chapter Thirty-one
Room service woke me in the Midland Hotel. In my delirium I did not think to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door before crashing into bed. The maid knocked once, then opened the door, and popped in.
“No service,” my roommate groaned.
“No serveeze?” the maid echoed.
“No service”
“No serveeze?”
“Si, no fucking serivico or whatever…”
“No serveeze?”
“NO FUCKING SERVICE, GO AWAY!”
She stood there for a second longer, casing our room or something; then she said, in a calm yet garbled voice, “Oh, okay, I come back later.” She shut the door.
When I woke again, rain was coming down. It was pouring outside and in. The roof leaked. Buckets, dozens of them, strategically positioned under dripping hallway sections tried futilely to stem the flow. Some of the buckets were full to the brim, overflowing onto the floor, soaking the carpet, and forming large puddles