Nobody Bats a Thousand (33 page)

“Lou, can I g
et a
Stoli
over.
” Bob pulled out a stool, sat and looked up at the ridiculous truck race.

“So how’s it going, Coach?” Lou, delivering the drink with his left hand used his right to reinsert the short, thick stub of an unlit cigar into the corner of his mouth.

“To be honest, since you asked, the last week has been about t
he wo
rst week of my entire life.
” Bob took a big
sip of his vodka.

“How’s that?”

“Well, first my dog gets run over and killed. Then two days later my old lady leaves
me
or rather throws me out without a word. She just puts all my stuff into plastic garbage bags, sets ‘em outside and changes the lock on the apartment door. Then that very same night I go to work at the Ramada and find out I’ve bee
n replaced by a karaoke machine.” H
e took another drink. “Damn corporate lounge jobs, damn assholes, if they make a dime less than the year before they start cutting, and the musicians are always the first to go.”

“Cheer up, so life is lousy, so what else is new? You still at the Food-Mart, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Union job, steady check, you should find solace in that. But I am sorry to hear about your dog. Me, I tend to find solace in animals. My old dachshund, Sam, I swear when he goes they’ll probably have to take
me with him.”

“And my songwriting, it’s hard to get the energy up to be creative.
Every day
it gets harder not to be discouraged.”

“Of course you got to force yourself to be stern with animals. You can’t let ‘em
get
to you with those sad eyes. Like when they’re begging for food, no matter how
hard it is, you got to be tough.
” Lou picked up Bob’s glass, shook it then set it back down on the bar. “You ready for another?”

“Nay.
”
Bob drained his drink.
“
Got to go to work.
We’ll see ya.” H
e got up, walked to the door, slowly opened it and stealthy exited, quickly scouting both sides of the street to his left and his right. A few steps more he stopped and expanded his survey of the street, slower with more concentration. There was the steady mild flow of pedestrians. A short, white-haired man in a long, black coat was now at the bus stop, but Bob’s new seedy acquaintance was nowhere to be seen.

Bob took his place at the stop beside the old man, who turned and smiled a smile too big for his face, his teeth too perfect to be real.

About a half a minute or so later the old man again turned to Bob.
“How’s by you?”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Dressed for work?”

“Yep, off to the salt mines.”

“A good job?”

“It pays the rent.”

“All work is worthy.” T
he short old man smiled once
again.
“When I was a young man.”
H
e
coughed weakly twice.
“
Hau
boy.”
H
is eyes glowed then narrowed and dimmed. He released another short cough, which ended as a gurgle, then he began to teeter, his eyelids fluttered, and he began to fall backward. Bob grabbed him by the sleeves of his coat, propped and held him; then Bob used his left arm to cradle the frail little man, slowly lowering with him until Bob was kneeling on the sidewalk, holding the old man in a sitting position.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve felt better.” T
he old man’s eyes were half open; his voice was weak but clear.

“Well just, just, be calm.
” Bob turned to the parade of anonymous legs moving past at great speed. “Hey! Would somebody help? Would somebody call an ambulance?” All passing eyes avoided Bob and the old man. Bob looked a
round wildly. “Oh crap, oh crap,” h
e struggled to keep the words under his breath.

“Talk to me son.”

“You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right just relax. Relax.”

“Talk to me. I don’t want to sleep. Talk to me about anything. Tell me about your work.”

“Well, I’m a checker at the Food-Mart part-time, four days a week but
that’s

”

“A union job?”

“Yeah, but it’s not what I want to do. Actually I’m a musician, a songwriter. Do you like music?”

“Do I like music? Do I like food to eat? Do I li
ke air to breathe? I love music.” H
e struggled through a long breath, and coughed. “But from this you make a living?”

“Well, I’ve made
some money over the years, but
hey, look you shouldn’t talk. I got to go call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me son. Please don’t leave me, please.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I got to get some help.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Bob.”

“Bob? Saul. Do me a favor would you, Bob?”

“Sure, sure, what?”

“Don’t be a schmuck. Music is a fine hobby but stick with the union job.”

“Okay, okay, just relax.”

“Relax nothing.
” Saul fought with a series of weak coughs. “Maybe you should listen from an old man’s experience. Maybe one in a million can make a good living from playing music, maybe one in a million…”

“Hey,
it’s
songwriting is where it’s at,” Bob reacted without thought, stopped, and then felt the need to continue.  “One song can get picked up by a big artist and bang! You got it made.”

“Again with the dreaming, better you should be realistic. Don’t rock the boat, what is, is.”

Bob, struggling not to argue, remained quiet.

“Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rock the boat. That’s my motto.”

“Nobody can run away from who they truly are,” Bob said, again speaking before he thought not to. “You can’t give up on something you know you were born to do. You just can’t.  I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

“Life is tough enough, son. Why ask for more aggravation,
who
needs it?”

A voice from above spoke,
“So
Bob, why are
you so afraid of failure?”

Moving his head, Bob first saw the long Levi skirt then the bottom of the beard; the hate man and his shopping cart just behind Bob and the old man, hovering over them.

“Need some help?”
Again the hairy smile.

“Who’s that?” Saul struggled but could not see far enough behind to find the source of the voice.

“Oh, it’s just a nice g
entleman who’s going to help us.
” Bob forced a smile he hoped looked genuine. “Right?” he asked, looking up
. Speaking slowly, he continued,
“Maybe you could go call 911 and get us an ambulance.”

“Sure, no problem, but first let me continue my thought. Why fear failure? And if you have no goals, you can never fail. Believe it or not I used to make good money when I lived down in LA. Good money, but it was no good. Good dough, and legal, but I had to do things that just weren’t right, it got too tough.”

Needing the tramp’s help, Bob fought hard not to interrupt. He figured he’d give him another thirty seconds before he became unglued.

“One day I said if this is it, if this is all there is then it ain’t worth it. Then once I quit being normal, once I began my alternative lifestyle things have been…well, okay.  I never get laid, but I didn’t do
all that
well when I had a nice pad and a nice ride. I guess you could say I used to lie like a rug, but now I’m happy as a clam.”

“You finished?”

“Yep.”

“Now would you go call?”

“Will do.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Give me
some
credit, would ya?
” H
e took a step then stopped to examine the situation. “I think I can trust you to look after my things. I’ve got a good feeling about you, Bob.”

“Please hurry.
” Bob dug into his pants pocket with his right hand as he used the crook of his left arm to balance the old man. “Here’s some change
if you need it
.”

“Oh, no, we’re not that good of friends, yet.” With that he was off, briskly, his long skinny arms and sharp dangerous elbows lurching through the air, his legs, constricted,
banging
against his long denim skirt.

“I’m so tired. Why am I suddenly so tired?”

“Hang in there, Saul. Help is on its way.”

Bob saw their bus approaching. His first thoughts were about missing the bus and being late for work. “Damn,” he said softly aloud. Here was this little man in his embrace, looking as if he were about to be pulled from life by a stroke, or a seizure, or a heart attack, and Bob’s mental pictures were filled with dealings with his uptight boss. Bob wondered if he was always this selfish. He wondered if his selfishness had brought on his recent woman problems, maybe all his problems.

The bus pulled up and squeaked to a halt, its front door even with Bob and Saul. Two people got on, paid their fares then moved on, leaving Bob a clear view of the big black bus driver, who seemed to be only black fat and big eyes under a driver’s cap.

“We need help.”

The driver closed the door, pulled the bus into traffic and drove away, leaving a black cloud of smoke hanging over Bob and the old man.

“Bastard,
” Bob said under his breath.

“Mission a
ccomplished.” T
he hate man was back, again standing over them, this time facing them.

“Who’s that?” T
he old man faintly opened his eyes then opened them wider for just a second. “
Oy
, so I’m gone. And the Catholics were right all along? Jesus was more than
just another Jew.” H
e drew in some air. “And what’s with the skirt?”

“Stitched it togeth
er myself.
How’d you like it?” H
e spread his garment out to give it a proper showing.

“On you, Jesus, it’s becoming.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“No, you’re not dead and that’s not Jesus. That’s just some bum.”

“The bum who made the call to 911.
Hang in there old guy. That’s if you really want to.  Maybe you should just relax and enjoy the ride to the other side.”

“Would you shut up?” Bob was tense and terse.

“Shut up
? That’s clo
se but no cigar.” T
he bum smiled and shook his forefinger.  “Remember, it’s I hate you,” he repeated the phrase in different lighthearted tones,
“I
hate you. I hate you.”

“Would you just knock it off?”

“I’m telling you it’s simple. Just three little words I
hate

”

“Stop it!” Bob said sharply. “If you don’t stop that crap, I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Hit me? Go ahead, brother, have fun. It wouldn’t be the first time I got my ass kicked. Don’t you see? I’m society’s punching bag.”

Looking away from the tramp, Bob shook his head and licked his lips. He felt very shaky, tight, and short of breath.

“Not even
a thanks
for the call?”

“Thanks,” Bob said without looking up.

“Don’t mention it.”

Several moments later, Bob could first hear the faint call of a siren slowly growing stronger. Looking down at the old man, weakly breathing,
his
eyes nearly shut, Bob felt guilty that he had fretted and been gloomy all week about his pitiful little problems. Hang on old guy, he thought, please don’t die, don’t become my problem. At least hang on until someone else gets here, don’t die you old son of a bitch. “It’s coming, Saul. The ambulance will be here soon.”

A fire truck slammed to a stop in the vacant bus stop. Two firemen in blue short-sleeve shirts were immediately off the truck and attending to Saul, one checking his pulse, the other taking over for Bob, who stood and stepped back into the crowd that had suddenly gathered.

An ambulance pulled up. The attendants were quickly out and at work, pulling out their stretcher and helping the fireman place Saul onto the pads. Bob stepped forward into the street, staring down at the old
man, who weakly opened his eyes and looked up at Bob.  “Be well,” Saul said just before he disappeared into the ambulance. The doors were shut. The vehicle pulled away with its lights flashing and siren screaming.

A different fireman came up to Bob. “Are you the one who made the call?”

“I was with him at the bus stop when he passed out.”

“Do you know him?”

Bob shook his head negatively.

“Well I still need to get a few facts from you, okay? 
Just routine stuff.”