Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut [128]
"Wait’ll you’ve racked up seven, Netman," said Sousa. "Then you come back and tell me about the miracle."
"You got seven?" said the bartender. "I’m one up on you. I got eight." He poured three drinks.
"Far as I’m concerned," said Sousa, "you can have the championship."
Heinz lifted his glass. "Here’s long life and great skill and much happiness to—to Peter Karl Knechtmann." He breathed quickly, excited by the decision.
"There’s a handle to take ahold of," said Sousa. "You’d think the kid weighed two hundred pounds."
"Peter is the name of a famous surgeon," said Heinz, "the boy’s great-uncle, dead now. Karl was my father’s name."
"Here’s to Pete K. Netman," said Sousa, with a cursory salute.
"Pete," said the bartender, drinking.
"And here’s to your little girl—the new one," said Heinz.
Sousa sighed and smiled wearily. "Here’s to her. God bless her."
"And now, I’ll propose a toast," said the bartender, hammering on the bar with his fist. "On your feet, gentlemen. Up, up, everybody up."
Heinz stood, and held his glass high, ready for the next step in camaraderie, a toast to the whole human race, of which the Knechtmanns were still a part.
"Here’s to the White Sox!" roared the bartender.
"Minoso, Fox, Mele," said Sousa.
"Fain, Lollar, Rivera!" said the bartender. He turned to Heinz. "Drink up, boy! The White Sox! Don’t tell me you’re a Cub fan."
"No," said Heinz, disappointed. "No—I don’t follow baseball, I’m afraid." The other two men seemed to be sinking away from him. "I haven’t been able to think about much but the baby."
The bartender at once turned his full attention to Sousa. "Look," he said intensely, "they take Fain off of first, and put him at third, and give Pierce first. Then move Minoso in from left field to shortstop. See what I’m doing?"
"Yep, yep," said Sousa eagerly.
"And then we take that no-good Carrasquel and..."
Heinz was all alone again, with twenty feet of bar between him and the other two men. It might as well have been a continent.
He finished his drink without pleasure, and left quietly.
At the railroad station, where he waited for a local train to take him home to the South Side, Heinz’s glow returned again as he saw a co-worker at the dry-cleaning plant walk in with a girl. They were laughing and had their arms around each other’s waist.
"Harry," said Heinz, hurrying toward them. "Guess what, Harry. Guess what just happened." He grinned broadly.
Harry, a tall, dapper, snub-nosed young man, looked down at Heinz with mild surprise. "Oh—hello, Heinz. What’s up, boy?"
The girl looked on in perplexity, as though asking why they should be accosted at such an odd hour by such an odd person. Heinz avoided her slightly derisive eyes.
"A baby, Harry. My wife just had a boy."
"Oh," said Harry. He extended his hand. "Well, congratulations." The hand was limp. "I think that’s swell, Heinz, perfectly swell." He withdrew his hand and waited for Heinz to say something else.
"Yes, yes—just about an hour ago," said Heinz. "Five pounds nine ounces. I’ve never been happier in my life."
"Well, I think it’s perfectly swell, Heinz. You should be happy."
"Yes, indeed," said the girl.
There was a long silence, with all three shifting from one foot to the other.
"Really good news," said Harry at last.
"Yes, well," said Heinz quickly, "well, that’s all I had to tell you."
"Thanks," said Harry. "Glad to hear about it."
There was another uneasy silence.
"See you at work," said Heinz, and strode jauntily back to his bench, but with his reddened neck betraying how foolish he felt.
The girl giggled.
Back home in his small apartment, at two in the morning, Heinz talked to himself, to the empty bassinet, and to the bed. He talked in German, a language he had sworn never to use again.
"They don’t care," said Heinz. "They’re all too busy, busy, busy to notice life, to feel anything about it. A baby is born." He shrugged. "What could be duller? Who would be so