He waves a hand in my face, turns back to the game. “Your pretzel awaits.”
I jog up the cement stairs, unable to hold back the smile of my young adult life. This detour has already paid for itself.
THE CONCESSION LINE is about a mile long, but I don’t mind. In my experience, the amount of time a person is willing to wait in line for any given thing is a pretty good barometer for how much that person wants the thing. And right now, “about a mile” is just the distance I’m willing to wait for a salty soft pretzel.
With the top half of the inning over, the Jumbotron is airing an animated race between two boy baseballs and one girl baseball (an anatomical feat in its own right). Nearby, a woman of considerable girth is holding a couple of hot dogs and a funnel cake; she’s staring at the Jumbotron, cheering mightily for the girl baseball to win. Three kids stand around her, grimy, silent, eyes fixed on the food in their mother’s hands. One of the kids quietly asks for a hot dog, to which the woman lets loose a slew of curses and threats about interrupting her while she’s “busy.”
Around us, other people keep their heads down, check watches, read programs, anything to avoid acknowledging the uncomfortable nearness of this horrible stranger.
“Hey,” I say, a slave to my impulses. The woman stops screaming, and looks at me as if I just apparated right in front of her. “You know they’re animated, right?” I point to the Jumbotron. “The numbered balls, I mean. They can’t hear you.” Her kids are staring now, too, their faces dirty but cute. I point to them, look the woman dead in her eyes. “But they can.”
Before I know it, everyone in line is clapping. The woman starts to say something, then thinks better of it. I smile wide and wave at her as she storms off. I won’t pretend not to be pleased by the response of those around me, but still—this woman’s ridiculous behavior is exactly why I really don’t care for crowds. Sheer mathematics dictates a ten-to-one ratio in favor of crazy.
The line inches forward. I keep my head down, follow the steps of the man in front of me.
Shit.
My epiglottis flutters, bottoms out.
His shoes.
Before I can get to a bathroom, or even turn my head, I vomit all over the bottom half of the guy.
“What the hell?” he says, quietly at first. Anger of this magnitude needs time to set in. “Oh—God.” He turns around wild-eyed. “What the hell?”
Without a word, I’m gone; down the bustling walkway, into the nearest ladies’ room. The mess drips down my chin, leaving a trail behind me like Hansel’s white pebbles. Running straight to the sink, I finish throwing up.
Penny loafers.
I close my eyes.
I’d like to be friends, Mim.
It does no good.
You want to be friends, don’t you?
All I can see are those shoes.
The glassy eyes.
What then—for the rest of my life, any time I see a man wearing penny loafers, I should expect to vomit? Lord help me should I work in a bank one day. Plenty of people wear penny loafers, and not all of them are Grade A pervs.
The mirror—caked in dust and dirt and a thin yellow layer of bathroom grime—reflects a host of curious glances.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” asks a woman in a flowery dress.
But I don’t answer. I can’t. I just stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder how long my right eye has been closed.
“WHAT TOOK SO long?” asks Beck.
“I got . . . held up.”
He eyeballs me. “I thought you were getting a pretzel?”
I lean over and put my head between my legs.
“Mim? You okay?”
“I threw up.”
“Are you sick?”
“What do you think?” I snap, harsher than I mean to be.
Walt turns to me with the most concerned of looks. “You’re sick, Mim?”
“No, Walt.” I give him a thumbs-up. “I’m fine. Just fine and dandy.”
My unenthusiastic response is rewarded with a double A-OK gesture.
Beck pulls his camera out of his bag. “Mim sure is lucky to have a friend like you, Walt. Damn lucky.”
Walt nods, smiling. “Damn lucky.”
A cool, post-rain breeze floats from the Ohio River, a small gesture of gratitude from what has otherwise been an unforgiving climate. Beck takes some pictures, and the Cubs, as they’ve done so beautifully for so many decades, go down in a glorious blaze of errors, stranded runners, and missed opportunities. In the symphony of losing, the Cubs aren’t just the first chair violinist—they’re the conductor, the bassoonist, the entire percussion section. And Walt, bless his heart, hasn’t lost one ounce of enthusiasm. He’s just wild with it, actually, cheering hard on the most mediocre of plays. The game draws to a close with the Reds winning twelve to three.
A little while later, the fireworks show starts behind the center field wall.
“Ha! Oh yeah! Ooh, look, Mim! Beck! Hey, hey, that was a good one!”
Smiling, I lean sideways toward Beck. “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning, huh?” I look from the explosive sky to Beck’s eyes—surprisingly, there’s not much difference.
“I lied,” he whispers.
Careful, Mary. There’s something fragile.
“Okay.”
“Ahhhhhh, Beck, look at that one!” Walt shouts.
Around us, the congregation of fans cheer, laugh, point, each of them gleefully oblivious to all but the fireworks. Beck and I are with them, but not with them. It reminds me of Thanksgivings growing up, sitting at the “kids’ table.” The grown-ups are right there, talking about important matters at work, upgrades around the house, goings-on in the neighborhood. What they don’t realize is that none of that matters. But the kids know it. God, do they ever.