While jobbing, the Hannah, aka., The Bet, and the Ana, aka., The New Mama, were giving me the now baleful of glares. These two ladies have a couple things in common: their names share a second syllable, and they both despise me. At least they did, at that moment.
“Boy, how many times have I told you to ask the last name before you give away an order?” the Ana asked.
“As many times as I’ve had orders, I die,” I said.
“And can’t you speak English!”
“Not while jobbing. How’s your baby? Pennylopes?”
“It’s Penelope. Jacquelyn Penelope. And she’s fine. Unlike me. Who has to refund one order and remake another.”
“And me,” the Hannah added. “Who has to work with you.”
“First of all, it’s jobbing.”
“Aren’t you particular.”
“And second, you can always go home, I suggest.”
“But!”
“Bet your butt, Bet!”
It was then I received a telephone communication from the Barry Lewisaka., The Daily Quote.
“May I take this?” I asked the Ana. “It’s urgent. It’s my boss.”
“Look at this white boy. I’m your boss!”
“The kingdom of hell knows many bosses. They are legion. It’s my Sports Illustrated superior.”
Before she could object, I said, “So may I?”
“Make it quick.”
“And before I go, could you fire her?” I asked, glancing at Bet.
“She does her job well, unlike someone else I know.”
“The fates know no mercy.”
“Hurry up!” Ana said.
“Take all the time you need,” Hannah said.
I was a little inclined to humor either request.
So I made my way to the garbage dump whereupon I lit the day’s first cigarette. And after letting the phone ring a baker’s dose or so more times, I took the Barry Lewis’ third call.
“Dear man! How are you? Long time no hear! I thought you weren’t talking to me!”
“Life is sometimes about compromises,” the dear man said. “And I am resigned to the fact that you are going to stuff my mouth with all kinds of nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, Barry. It’s my sense. ”
“I might suggest that is a questionable distinction.”
“Piffle! There is no question in the matter. It is as certain as I am talking to you.”
“You’re not. You’re making it all up.”
“Let’s not be pedantic.”
“We’ve got work to do. First, I need your Big 12 Power Rankings for the week. ASAP.”
When the Barry Lewis got ASAP I knew he was serious.
“You can’t be serious! Have you read the Myth of Sisyphus?”
“In college.”
“Sisyphus. Sisyphus is condemned by the gods to roll a rock up a hill. The rock is basically a boulder. The mountain is high and steep. And after scaling the mountain..”
“I know how it goes.”
“. . . with a boulder large enough to crush a man, he finally places the boulder at the crest, at which point it falls back to the base and he has to do it over again. For all eternity. Without so much as a cigarette break. ”
“What are you on?”
“The meaning of my life.”
“I’m very happy for you. Now can you get them in some time tonight before I sleep.”
“If I must, I will.”
“Also. Tomorrow you have an article to write about Tommy Sacco. He’s proved to be one of our best players this season. It’s an accolade. He’s shortstop of the week. I’ll text you. ”
Sure enough, five minutes later, I did receive said text communication: a bunch of numbers and acronyms and words like “series” and “doubles.” Double double toil and trouble. The only double I cared about was waiting at Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107 (please no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned).
He amended this enumeration of indiscernible facts with the statement: “He was not retired on Sat. night. He may not have been retired on Sunday. I’d have to check.”
I scratched my head. Retired? I wrote: “Pardon me, dear man, but why are you so insistent I author a piece about a player who is retiring?”
Gray dots blossomed into a gray bubble.
“I forget you are an ignorance. Retired means he got out. Either strike out or out at the base. Retired and sent back to dugout. Another way to say it is he made it to the base every bat either by a hit or a walk. ”
“And these people say I don’t speak English,” I muttered in futility. Whereupon, resigned, I made my sad way back to the taco shop when something hit me, hard, in the back of the head, and I uttered to the sky a litany of curses such as no man has in the history of curses and boulders .
I glanced down and saw a rock.
“Sorry. I was aiming for the window,” the kid said, running away.
“You can always try again!” I shouted before embracing fate.
Scroll to Continue
Nine hours later, I was free. But my head was pounding as though the rock had penetrated skull and was bouncing all around from wall to wall, not least my temples.
I pulled into Montgomery with less than full attention and felt a bump, the car paused, and simultaneously there was an eruption of swearing, as if an actor were imitating my performance outside the taco shop that afternoon.
It was then I saw the Stubbs limping to the bar.
“It’s the Bobby! How are you, dear friend!”
“You just ran me over you -”
And he said something that I can’t print here, lest it get me banned from Sports Illustrated for life, and I don’t want to give the Baylor administration the satisfaction.
“Yeah, Bobby, I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately I have an article to write.”
“And quit calling me Stubbs in your pieces! I have a name and it’s Bobby. BOBBY! Bobby!”
“Sure thing, Bobby!”
I must admit I pitied the Stubbs at that moment.
An hour later, I was still at my laptop going over the names.
1. TCU
2. Westvirginiatechkansastateoklahomastatestatesometometanother
Then the Stubbs passed by, limping. I felt a little bad about it, both Stubbs’ leg, which appeared to be badly knotted at the knee, and my car, with a knee-sized dent in it.
“Bobby!” I shouted. “I’m so sorry about running you over. Put your drinks tonight on my tab.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Below is me.”
“Thanks, man,” they said, raising a glass. “Cheers.”
“Where everybody knows your name. And now of all knows how to spell it!” I said, clinking glasses.
And out of my munition God had mercy. For it was not just I who had failed to provide a list of rankings, but the David Tucker, who, in response to a reminder by the Barry Lewis, wrote, by accident, in a common thread:
1. Tech
2. OKST
3. Texas
4. TCU
5. Oklahoma
6. WVU
7. Baylor
8. K-State
9. Kansas
I almost hugged myself for this benison. Plagiarism had never before been so easy. Or sweet. But just after copying the list and before sending, I stared one more time at the names, puzzled. How could TCU be so low? The perfidy! The betrayal! Purblind treachery! And Texas at 3? The Rema would never approve, nor forgive me were I to allow that order to go unaltered.
So I fixed it:
1. TCU
2. Tech
3. OKST (whoever the hell that was!)
4. Oklahoma
5. WVU (whoever the hell that was!)
6. K-State (ditto)
7. Kansas
8. Texas
9. Baylor
And glorified by my success, it was only 10:00, the night was still young, the barry Lewis tamed, I marched to the bar to close my tab.
The Amy gave a grim smile I hardly trusted. Nor should I have when I saw the receipt. I could have juggled my eyeballs that fell right into my palms. Or thrown them like rocks at the Stubbs and his knees. That guy owed me at least the tab to fix my car.
“How is this possible!”
“It’s two tabs.”
“I knew the man would have a couple of drinks.”
“He had to drink the pain off, I imagine,” she said. “He had ten doubles. Some jerk ran him over and he won’t say who it was.”
“Friendship is as friendship does, I guess.”
“Or as it goes.”
I pauses.
“If it please the Amy, I need a drink to recover from this.”
“Sure thing. What are we having?”
“Paddy’s. Double,” I said. I paused and smiled. “On the rocks.”
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