The Loners: Chapter 2

When Paul left the University around nine the next evening, he hated the thought of facing his empty house so he stopped at The Triple C Coffeehouse instead. It would only be open for another hour but that was time enough for him to grab a cup of joe and take his time to drink it. He hadn't meant to become a regular. He hated the idea of being recognized by the staff at a public establishment and feeling them observing his loneliness. But he'd become one in spite of himself. It was because of the owner more than the coffee although it was good enough.


He wasn't usually one for small talk but something about Catherine always made him say more than he'd planned. So far he'd told her he was a bus driver and a custodian. He generally never volunteered the fact that he emptied trashcans and cleaned urinals for a living but he'd told Catherine for no discernible reason. He took a seat at his regular place at a booth toward the back and waited for someone to take his order. When Catherine herself appeared, his face broke into an unaccustomed smile.

"Howdy, Mr. Bus Driver," she said. "Hot chocolate as usual with whipped cream?"

"Yep," he said. "How's business?"

"Could be worse. It pays the bills."

"How long have you had this place?"

"Almost two years now. Didn't think I'd make it through the first one but now it's going stronger than ever."

She walked off and returned a moment later with his drink. "It's hot," she said. "Don't burn your tongue."

"Yes, ma'am."

He sipped the drink slowly, in no hurry to be done with it. The place was over half full of patrons, mostly college kids talking amongst themselves and creating a buzz of a hundred conversations. Paul found the chatter pleasant but at the same time it made him lonely. He could hardly remember the last time he'd sat across from another person at a restaurant and spoke about whatever inane topic came to mind. There was a time in his life when he'd taken such things for granted. He drank the hot chocolate so slowly it was almost room temperature by the time he finished and his watch told him it was only fifteen minutes to closing time. He watched Catherine hustle around the restaurant from the corner of his eye. Once, she'd made eye contact with him from across the room. He'd quickly looked away.

She probably thinks I'm stalking her now, he thought.

But when she came to take his empty cup, she was friendly as ever.

"Why don't you have a hot date tonight, Mr. Bus Driver?" she asked.

"I don't make enough money to date," he answered.

"Do women these days date just for money?"

"I wouldn't know."

She started to say something else but studied his face for a moment and changed her tone. "You're an interesting guy, Mr. Bus Driver. I haven't quite figured you out."

"Not much to figure out, I'm afraid. My name is Paul by the way."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Paul." She said it like she meant it and he was sure she was far more interesting than he was. She doesn't know I'm a monster, he thought. She went to take care of another customer and he sensed she wanted to speak to him longer.

He took the opportunity to place the money for the bill and a generous tip on the table and leave.

The following week, on the bus route, Paul watched Michael Eldridge step on the bus and boldly sit next to Rajeer. He pressed against the boy closer than he needed to, purposefully squeezing him against the window. Paul didn't like it. He watched him through his rearview. Rajeer looked the picture of discomfort, peering out the window, not daring to turn his head toward Eldridge. When they'd nearly reached the school, Paul saw Rajeer reluctantly reach in his coat pocket and pass the other kid a twenty-dollar bill. Eldridge crumpled it in his fist, stuffed it in his pocket and gave Rajeer a furtive punch in his side.

Rajeer sucked in breath and his eyes watered in pain but he made no sound. Paul didn't think the kid realized how well Paul could see him through the mirror. When they reached the school, the boy tried to be one of the first students to scramble out but Paul grabbed him by the waist of his jeans and pulled him back.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch!" the boy screamed.

Rajeer watched frozen from his seat.

"Give him back his money," Paul demanded.

"I don't have any damn money. I can get you fired. You don't know who you're messing with, man."

"I saw you take his money and punch him. Give the boy his money back."

Paul was holding his temper with an effort. The boy studied his face for a second and sullenly reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the bill. He tossed it toward Rajeer but it landed in the aisle beside him.

"Pick it up," Paul told him.

"Or what?" the kid said.

"You'll wish you had."

The boy made no motion to do as he was told and for a moment, Paul feared his temper would boil over. But then Rajeer stood and retrieved the bill.

"Thanks," he mumbled to Paul. He left the bus.

"Don't try to ride this bus again," Paul whispered to Eldridge.

He glowered at Paul as if he were afraid the man would attack him. When he was gone, the rest of the students filed off the bus as silent as monks. Paul felt embarrassed as his adrenaline subsided. He knew he would have to speak to the principal.

At least I got the boy's money back.

He met with Mr. Boyett at 8:30. He told him of witnessing the Eldridge kid steal money from Rajeer and eventually returning it after Paul confronted him. He didn't tell him how he'd pictured throttling the boy by the neck until his eyes popped out. The principal seemed like a reasonable man and agreed Paul should have discretion over who was allowed to ride his bus. He said he would meet with the kid later today as well as inform his parents. He signed a couple of papers to make the deed official and it was done. Leaving the man's office, Paul thought he should be relieved the issue had gone so smoothly. But he didn't.

He wondered if he'd really helped Rajeer at all. He certainly couldn't fight all the boy's battles for him. He couldn't quit thinking about how angry he'd been. Before he'd joined the Marines, people often commented on his mild temperament but now the least little thing could turn him to a raging bull.

I should probably go to therapy, he thought. But he knew he wouldn't. His pride wouldn't let him.

Not too proud to empty trashcans for a living though, he thought as he parked at the college. But feeing sorry for himself was something he couldn't abide. Who's feeling sorry for Abid? he asked himself.

Dr. Simpson lectured on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as Paul swept and mopped the classroom next door. He found himself listening intently, fascinated by the subject. He wondered if the professor knew about the problems his son was having. Paul decided to tell him.

He dillydallied after Professor Simpson's class was over, waiting for the man to emerge from his office. He finally came out nearly an hour later, carrying his briefcase and striding purposefully toward the door again. Paul stepped in front of him.

"Professor Simpson," he said. "My name is Paul Nichols. I drive your son to school."

"Okay," the professor said. "Can I help you with something?"

"I wanted to let you know your son's having some problems with a certain kid. I caught this boy stealing money from your son today. This was the second time I'd seen it happen."

"I see. Was something done about it?"

"The boy, Michael Eldridge is his name, is suspended from riding my bus now. But I'm still concerned for Rajeer. I'm afraid he might retaliate against him."

"I see. Thanks for the information, sir. I'll speak to him about it."

Before Paul could say another word, the professor was past him, heading for the door. Paul wondered if the man cared more about the theories of dead men than the well being of his son. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt...for now at least.

The time was nearly 9:30 by the time he left the University. He almost drove past The Triple C but couldn't resist. He went inside and took his usual seat. The restaurant was only half as crowded as it had been a couple of nights before. A young blonde girl took his order rather than Catherine. He asked for a hot chocolate again and decided to splurge on a loaf of banana bread. He was nearly done with the drink before he spied her in the back, hustling about. He resisted the urge to wish she might speak to him. By the time he was done with his last crumb of banana bread, it was five past ten and he was the only customer left in the restaurant. He put a ten on the table and stood to leave.

"Hey Paul, are you taking off without as much as a good-bye again?"

"Hey," he said.

"How about a coffee on the house if you'll let me take a seat with you?"

"Sure." Paul sat back down

She brought him the coffee along with a cup for herself and took a seat across from him. Paul studied her face as she sipped, thinking she was more attractive than he'd first noticed. Her eyes were a piercing blue and her face was smooth and unblemished. He couldn't tell if she wore any makeup at all. She wasn't wearing her apron and without it, Paul noticed how slender she was. He wondered if she worked out to keep such a figure. He got the feeling she'd lived a full life in a few years but rather than beating her down, her experiences had given her wisdom. He found himself liking her a great deal although he hardly knew her. It was the warmth of her smile that truly won him over.

"How long have you been in town?" she asked him.

"Since July."

"Where were you before that?"

"A little town Northwest of here called Camilla."

"I know where Camilla is. Not much more than a bump in the road is it?"

"No, it's pretty small."

"What did you do there?"

"Helped my dad on his farm. I lived most of my life there actually."

"Why do I get the feeling you've been a few places besides your dad's farm in Camilla?"

Paul chuckled "What gives you that idea. I was in the military a few years. Only got out about a year ago actually."

"You were a Marine weren't you?"

"That's true. What gave it away?"

"I've known a few in my time. I can see it in the way you hold yourself."

"I've been out of the Corps for almost two years now. I guess you never quite get it out of your system though. But honestly, I don't feel like a Marine any more."

"Why not?"

He studied her face, unwilling to answer, realizing he'd said more than he'd intended to her again.

"Do you get this kind of read on all your guests?" he finally said.

"No. Just the ones that pique my interest."

"I might not seem so interesting once you know more about me."

"I'm pretty sure you would."

Paul noticed her support staff looked to be putting the final touches on cleaning the place. They seemed antsy to leave.

"I should be probably get going. I don't want to hold everyone up."

"Suit yourself." She took a pen from her pocket and scribbled something on a napkin. "Don't be a stranger," she said.

She walked away without looking back. He reached for the napkin and saw her phone number written there. A thrill surged through him as he folded it and stuck it in his pocket.

I won't call her, he told himself. That would accomplish nothing.

Loners: Chapter 1

Decided to post the first chapter of the novel I'm working on. It's a work in progress, so anything written here is subject to change at a later time, but I decided to go ahead and put this out there. Also, Loners is my working title, but that's also likely to change.

Paul


The harder he tried not to think about the boy he killed, the more he fixated on it. He could almost feel the trigger's pressure against his finger as he'd put the boy's skull in between the crosshairs of his rifle sites and the recoil of his shoulder when he squeezed the trigger. The boy had dropped from the man's arms like groceries falling through a wet bag. His target, the terrorist, the insurgent, whatever the proper term for him was, dropped to the ground as well, screaming and crouching into a ball with his hands over his head. The man dropped his weapon when the boy fell and someone in the cowering crowd might have kicked it away. Paul took aim again and shot the man between his shoulder blades.

It was a good shot and the last he ever took as a Marine Corps sniper. He couldn't get over the shot before, the one that shattered the skull of the innocent child the terrorist thought would shield him. It might have made a difference, Paul sometimes thought, if a superior officer had ordered the shot. But no one had. He'd simply seen it as the only way to "secure his target" as the aphorism went. If the man hadn't killed Sgt. Rainey just three days before, Paul wondered if would have been so determined and ruthless enough to do what he'd done.

Afterward, as he lay motionless on the rooftop, hidden by the shadows of the adjacent building, he'd watched as a woman ran to the body of the fallen boy and wailed. She'd stood and shook her fist towards the sky, probably cursing him in Arabic. Paul felt nothing at the time. No remorse, no shame. That came later.

Two years had passed since then. He was no longer a Marine. He'd ceased to be after that day although he'd worn the uniform for another year before his enlistment expired and he opted out. People had always referred to him as a loner and now he did everything alone. He lived alone, ate alone, worked alone. He was too proud to say it but it wore on him. If a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? If a man lives his whole life and no one notices, did it really happen? That was a thought that went through his head frequently these days.

Now he was a janitor and a bus driver. He'd never guessed he'd work at professions he'd considered so menial all his life and still did, even as he drove seventh and eighth graders to school Monday through Friday mornings and cleaned out the trashcans of the local University. But he didn't hate either job as he'd expected. Driving the bus full of hyperactive kids who saw their bus driver as having no dominion over them had been tough for the first couple of days until Paul decided to carry himself exactly like a drill instructor and get the kids under control. By now, they'd figured out he was at least halfway making a game of it but it hardly mattered. To his relief, the kids had decided to behave halfway like humans on his route. The janitor job also had its perks. No one told him what to do. No one checked after him. Paul noticed that hardly anyone noticed him at all. Being a custodian was as close to invisible as a human could come without a magic cloak. He'd come to crave the silence and the isolation which felt like freedom while he worked rather than the oppressive loneliness that often claimed him as he sat alone in his one room apartment flipping through the stations and telling himself he should at least get a pet for Christ's sake.

He often worked at night in the classroom next to an introductory Psychology course that ran from five p.m. until seven forty-five. The professor lectured almost the entire time except for occasional student questions and a fifteen-minute break halfway through. The man was a good speaker with a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the subject but Paul still wondered how the students could possibly remain attentive through his endless word stream. Even so, he sometimes lingered in the empty classroom long after he'd finished cleaning it just to listen a little longer. There were two obvious truths about Professor Simpson: he loved Sigmund Freud and the sound of his own voice. Two weeks passed before he ever saw the man to match a face to the speech.

He came striding through the hall almost as soon as the last of his students had exited his classroom. Paul was vacuuming and the man almost brushed him as he passed without acknowledging his existence. He looked nothing like Paul had thought. He'd pictured a balding, middle-aged man with a paunch and saggy slacks but the man was almost too slim for good health and dressed in a tailored suit with the wisp of a goatee jutting from his chin. His hair was cut short enough to make a drill instructor proud and a professional looking leather briefcase swung from his left arm. Paul wondered where he was going in such a hurry.

As he watched him move down the hallway, he imagined seeing the back of the man's head centered through the crosshairs of his rifle. He saw himself squeezing the trigger and watching the professor's skull shatter like an overripe fruit.

He would drop like a stone, he thought and all his knowledge of Freud and Jung would spill to the floor along with his brains.

Paul shook himself and forced the thought away. He was no longer a Marine Corps sniper. Nothing good would come of still thinking like one.

Paul noticed the sad looking kid the very first day on his bus route. He knew next to nothing about him except his name: Rajeer Simpson. The kid was always silent. He didn't realize the boy was the professor's adopted son until he saw the man's signature on a paper Rajeer accidentally dropped on his seat one morning.

Stephen Simpson, PhD was written across the page in a large, flourishing script. Rajeer had made a hundred, Paul noted. The fact that the man felt the need to add his title after his signature confirmed Paul's suspicion that he was a pompous ass. Poor kid, he thought. He didn't get that kind of air from Rajeer at all. He brought the paper inside the school and took it to the boy's teacher. Rajeer sat in the back of the classroom, attentive and silent, just as he always seemed on the bus. When Paul handed the paper to the teacher, she instructed him to tell Paul thank you for finding it. He'd saved him a 0 in the grade book. Paul felt embarrassed for the kid and wished he'd waited to hand it to him when he got on the bus again.

"Thank you," Rajeer said in a barely audible voice.

"You're welcome," Paul told him, feeling as much discomfort as the kid.

Then he dashed from the classroom. He'd always hated being the center of attention. He supposed it was something he and Rajeer had in common.

A sniper's job was never to be seen at all, he thought. Silent, invisible death. That's what he'd delivered for the Marine Corps at least fifty times before the one he couldn't justify.

On his way to his second job after changing into his custodian gear: a tan shirt with his name on the front and dark green khakis, he couldn't quit thinking about the boy. He couldn't help but speculate about how Professor Simpson might have come to adopt him. Paul was sure he was adopted. There was no way the man could have sired such a dark skinned progeny and he was pretty sure no Americans adopted kids from the Middle East. Their features were nothing alike. Besides, he liked the boy better than his father and the idea the professor wasn't his natural father made him like him all the better.

It was early November before Paul realized Rajeer was being bullied. Michael Eldridge was the bully's name. He was a head taller, a good fifty pounds heavier and sported a head full of long, greasy hair. Tom Brady Gone Bad. That was how Paul thought of him. Paul watched in his rearview mirror as the boy subtly poked Rajeer in the shoulder and mouth something at him as he walked by. Rajeer made no reaction.

When they reached the school and the kids unloaded, Paul tarried a moment to watch. The Eldridge kid approached Rajeer again. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him toward his face, clearly demanding something. Rajeer reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a couple of bills and handed them over. Paul had a good view of the other kid's face and read his lips as he cuffed Rajeer on the side of the head and walked past him.

"Thanks, fuckin' Hajji," he said.

Paul had to restrain himself from not bolting from the bus to throttle him but knew that wouldn't do. Rajeer would have to fight his own battles. Still, he wanted to help the kid. The next day, as Eldridge was about to leave his bus, Paul spoke to him.

"Mr. Eldridge, have a seat behind me. I'd like to speak to you in private for a moment."

"What do you want?"

"Have a seat, kid."

He stared the boy down and for a moment, Paul thought he would walk on, but instead the boy finally did as he was told. When the last student was off the bus, Paul addressed him.

"I saw you take money from Rajeer Simpson yesterday."

The boy smirked. "You didn't see anything. We were just fooling around."

"Don't let me see you 'fooling around' like that again. If you do, I'll suspend you from this bus. Do you understand?"

"Whatever." The kid walked away.

Paul watched him go, biting back his anger. He could see the headline: Ex-Marine Mauls School Boy it might say. He wondered if he'd made things even worse for Rajeer. That night as he cleaned, he hardly heard Professor Simpson's droning in the next room. He couldn't get his mind off Rajeer. He wanted to protect the kid. He knew the boy's father would probably tell him it was because he wanted to make up for the other one: the one he'd murdered.

He was exhausted by the time he got home and dozed off on the couch with the eleven o'clock news on the television. He dreamed.

Abid Akbar. That was the boy's name. But in the dream it was Paul's name too.

His mother held his hand as she walked to the market. She held it too tight. The sidewalks were crowded and the street was full of honking cars. He could feel his mother's tension. She walked so fast he could barely keep up and he knew she was wishing she'd waited another day to go shopping. But they'd been out of milk and bread and his baby sister was crying with hunger. His mother left her with his Aunt Miriam telling her she'd be back in only a couple of hours. He'd begged to come because he liked to see the soldiers and the commotion of the city. It excited him and she could never tell him 'no' although he guessed she wished she had on this occasion. He had to admit there was too much excitement in the city even for him today. He felt the tension in the air; the threat of impending violence. His mother kept glancing between a group of black robed men lurking near an alleyway and uniformed Americans patrolling the streets with rifles. She was afraid of the Americans and was always telling him to stay away from them.

Don't speak to them, Abid, she would tell him. They mean you no good.

Okay, Mama, he would answer. But he wasn't sure she was right. He watched them when he was in the city. He liked the easy way they talked and walked even when they patrolled. The Americans were quick to smile and laugh. But he knew why his mother was afraid of them. They'd killed her brother.

"Are you scared, Mama?" he asked.

"No. We just need to get home as fast as we can."

"If you let go of my hand I can keep up with you better."

She didn't answer except to squeeze his hand a little tighter and walk half a step faster. Then he heard the sharp crack of gunfire. People on the crowded sidewalk scattered for shelter. His mother was dragging him toward an open shop as well but then someone wrenched him from her grasp. Abid saw that it was one of the black robed men. The man wrapped his arm around Abid's chest so tightly he had to wheeze for breath. The man's robe smelled of mildew and sweat and his grip was like steel. He lifted Abid off the ground as if he weighed no more than his baby sister. He heard his mother scream but the crowd had already swept her away from his grasp.

"Mama!" he screamed. But his voice was mute to his own ears amidst the cacophony around him.

"God is great!" the man shouted. He fired his automatic weapon towards the American uniforms with his free hand. Abid saw one of them fall as the man's bullet found its mark. Then he understood what was happening. He'd become a human shield. He struggled against his captor's grasp, kicking his legs and trying to lower his head to bite his hand. But his efforts were futile. The man's grip was too strong. He saw something flash from the corner of his eyes and turned his head in the light's direction. On a rooftop, he saw a black figure lying prone with a rife pointing at him.

In the next moment, the world turned red. He felt himself collapse to the ground and heard the crack of a gunshot as if it were coming from another world. Then there was only darkness.

Paul opened his eyes. An infomercial played on the television screen: some workout program that could make you as lean as a Navy SEAL in only six weeks. He fumbled in the semi-darkness for the remote and hit the power button. The pitch-blackness of the room unsettled him once the television was off. It was the same dream. It didn't come every night or even every week but it always came. He'd never told anyone about it. He'd never told anyone about shooting the boy at all and as far as he knew no one else knew he had done it. There were other Marines on the street that day in Baghdad but in the confusion of the firefight, it was possible that none of them had seen exactly what happened. If they had, none had ever mentioned it to him. War was war and any Marine who'd been inside of it knew that shit happens in war and the normal rules don't apply.

But when the war is over and civilization prevails again, you have to live with yourself. Every day since he'd tried to justify what he'd done and couldn't do it. He'd purposely murdered a child because that child's life was an inconvenient obstacle obscuring his true target. What kind of man was he to have been capable of such an evil act? It flew in the face of everything he'd believed about himself and no matter what he tried to do for the rest of his life to make up for it, it wouldn't matter. He was certain a braver man would have killed himself to even the score. But he was not that man.

He stopped his mind from going down that road and forced himself to stand from the sofa to grope through the darkness to his bedroom. He fell on the mattress and closed his eyes. Thankfully, he didn't dream.

Dream Interpretation

Today was the biggest day of Kaylee Myles' career. She stood in the front of the Washington National Cathedral and prepared to sing for the President. He'd been re-elected for a second term and she was glad. She thought he was a handsome guy who thought a lot like her. He'd fought a conservative congress tooth and nail for four years to get his more liberal programs passed and to add insult to injury, he'd been re-elected by a surprisingly landslide margin. All his Republican opponents could do was gnash their teeth in frustration through another term.

Surrounded by Secret Service, the President now sat on the front pew only a few feet from her. He sat next to his lovely wife and he looked directly at her now smiling that telegenic smile that had charmed a nation. She blushed and her heart was nearly bursting with pride that of all the singers they could have chosen for this occasion, the President had picked her.

She knew she was a controversial choice if only because of her appearance, not even considering the explicit lyrics of some of her popular songs. She kept her head shaved bald and her face was tattooed with black streaks. She'd heard more times than she'd cared for about how she could be so beautiful if only she allowed her hair to grow and hadn't chosen to mutilate her face with ink. In interview after interview, she'd been asked about this choice.

She shaved her head as a tribute to Sinead O'Connor whom she'd admired as a child and the singer she modeled herself after. The face tattoos had been an impulse decision she'd made when she was fifteen when social services had taken her away from her single mother and placed her in foster care. She'd administered the tattoos herself as an act of angry defiance and although she didn't regret the decision because it gave her a distinctive identity, she certainly didn't recommend it to anyone else.

Her explanation for the shaved head was true, but she'd lied about the tattoos. The truth was she didn't know. She didn't remember her life at all before the age of twelve, not until she'd been adopted by a kindly elderly couple from Los Angeles. The tattoos were already there and in her naivete at the time, she'd believed they were birthmarks"God's tattoos, her adopted mother told her. She'd become a teenager before learning the difference.

The tattoos weren't the only thing that marked her. The dream was the other thing. It had come to her for as long as she could remember; maybe not every night, but nearly. Sometimes the details were different, but it was always basically the same. She would find herself in darkness and fear that she'd gone blind. Then she would hear the faint ticking of a clock. She believed her sight would return if she could only find its location, but no matter how desperately she tried, she could not discern its direction. In another moment, a window would appear above her head. Through it, she could see a leafless tree and a falcon circling above it.

She would find herself able to stand and as she did so, the ticking would grow louder. She would walk towards the window and its decibel would increase with every step. By the time she reached it, she had clapped her hands against her ears in a vain attempt to block the pounding sound. As she gazed through the glass that overlooked a large city, the falcon would screech and propel itself against the window. In the moment before it struck, she realized the ticking's source was her own heart.


She'd spent her life trying to interpret the dream. She'd read volumes of books on the subject, but in spite of everything, it still baffled her. No matter how many times she had it, she still woke from it sweat-drenched and terrified. She guessed it must have originated from that time before her memory, when she must have been the victim experiences so traumatizing her mind erased it to protect her.

There was a part of her that believed her mind was right. Perhaps she was safer to not be at the mercy of her past, whatever it was. Perhaps if she had not been, she would not have accomplished all that she had. But another side of her wondered if her dreams were a warning from her unconscious self of some future event she had best beware of. Whatever the case, the truth was she didn't know, and there was nothing to be done for it but to live her life the best way she knew how.

Now, as she smiled back at the President and stepped to the microphone to sing the song she'd chosen for this occasion, a song about peace and the beauty of the human spirit, she had to believe she'd done pretty well to make it to where she stood today. As soon as she sang the first note, she heard the ticking from her dream for the first time while she was wide awake. She tried to tell herself it was only nerves, but as the ticking escalated before she hit the chorus, she could no longer deny its reality.

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Outside the cathedral, an elderly woman wearing black from head to toe spoke to a man of similar age and dress. Although the area was thick with people, no one stood within two arms' length of either of them. Their eyes shone with excitement; more excitement than the re-inauguration of a president could have possibly offered.

"It's almost time," the woman said. "It's what we've waited for all our lives."

"Yes," the man agreed. "All is going according to God's plan. We should move to a safer distance so we are not swallowed in His glory."

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The ticking in her brain became so loud it overwhelmed her song, but no one else seemed to hear it.

It's in my heart, she realized. The ticking matches the rhythm of my heartbeat just like in the dream. Though her lungs swelled with song, the music did not reach her ears. The President and the First Lady looked up at her with wide smiles, seemingly touched by the power of her voice. The audience too appeared enthralled as she sang, but something told her trouble was eminent. Something told her that this moment, the largest of her life, was what the dream had foretold. From her vantage point, she could see through a single window. Through it, planted on the lawn outside, she could see a tree, its branches denuded of leaves, and as she watched, a falcon swooped to perch atop it.

This is the moment my dream foretold, she thought as she began the chorus for the final time and her ticking heart beat in her ears like a bomb.

A bomb, she thought. In an instant, she understood. A snippet of memory came to her: waking from a surgery of some kind to see hooded faces standing over her. We are patriots, one of them said to her, and you are God's chosen. You have been bestowed a glorious duty. Why did she not remember until now? What had those people done to her?

As the last note of her song escaped her lungs, she sprinted across the cathedral and slung herself through the window. The sound of the breaking glass barely registered to her over the bomb's ticking. An instant after, her body detonated in a fireball that people claimed to see from miles away. The leafless tree was incinerated, but the hawk escaped, losing a tail feather or two in the process. The ground below burnt the grass down to the roots and the land there remained black and desolate for years to come. A charred area that people agreed resembled an angel was imprinted against the cathedral's stones, but it was otherwise undamaged. All who attended that day and witnessed a spectacle they would never forget, including the president, were unharmed.

"I do not understand her death or fully what I saw that day," he was quoted as saying. "But I was moved by her song."

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"How could she have known?" the woman in black asked the man.

"Satan must have told her," he said. "But we will try again and this time we shall succeed."

The woman shook her head in regret. "God bless America," she said.

Jimi Hendrix Lives

On the day Jacob Lyons broke up with Kiley, he went wandering around downtown Savannah in a haze. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking before realizing he was lost. He would have believed this to be impossible. He thought he must have covered every nook and cranny of this part of the city at some point in time, but nothing around him was familiar.

"Weird," he said to himself.

As he absorbed his unfamiliar surroundings, a storefront so quaint, it should have been on a postcard caught his eye.

Dean's Books, the sign above the red and yellow canvas awning read.

'Plain enough,' Jacob thought as he opened the door. A tingling bell announced his arrival.

He stood in the entrance-way for a moment marveling at the place. It was a hipster's paradise. Shiny, vinyl records lined the walls and lay in stacks a foot deep on tables as well. He'd never seen so many in one place. The Beatles were singing about starting a revolution on the overhead speakers and an old timey cash register sat unattended on a counter near the door. He glanced around the store in search of a proprietor or another customer, but saw no one.

He shrugged and picked up an album of top of the stack in front of him. "Long Live Spaceman by New Millenium Falcon Crest?" he said aloud, staring at the psychedelic image of a giant frog leaping into the air with a grotesquely long tongue capturing an eagle from the sky on the cover. "WTF?"

He had never heard of the band Left Switch Pony or The Greatest Hits of Marshall Pavaloni either. It wasn't until he came to the tenth record down that he found a performer he was familiar with. He stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out if it was someone's idea of a joke or some strange tribute. The album's title: Wanderlustscapia, was written in large, bubbly candy cane red and white letters across the top. But the picture and name of the artist below it sent chills down his spine.

It showed a gray haired Jimi Hendrix with a giant afro jamming passionately on his guitar. Bubbles of every color sprung from the instrument. Jacob picked up the album, half fearing the strange thing would shock him on contact. He turned it over and searched the fine print on the back for a year.

"2000?" he said to himself. None of the tracks were familiar to him: Fine Devil Woman, Rainbow Parachute, Snake Eyes in the Dark. He saw no price tag, but this was something he had to have; for the novelty if nothing else.

"Find something you like?" a man's voice asked from behind him.

Jacob yelped and dropped the record back on the stack. He whirled and nearly bumped into a man who looked nearly as strange as the album he'd just held. The top of his head barely reached Jacob's chest. He wore a tie-dyed shirt, a threadbare pair of khaki cargo shorts, equally worn Chuck Taylor tennis shoes with no socks and a tie-dyed shirt. But his most prominent feature was his goatee. It must have reached four inches below the man's chin and looked sharp enough to cut steak. There was more hair on his chin than his head. All that was left of it there were a few scraggly white tufts concentrated around his temples.

"Dylan Dean," the man said, offering his hand. "Are you a Hendrix fan?"

"Jacob," he answered. "I am, but I've never heard of this album." He handed it to Dean.

The man seemed to hold it reverently as he admired the cover art. "I have indeed," he said. "Just saw the man in concert about a month ago in Chicago. Would you believe Lennon made a cameo on the keyboards during the last set. The crowd went so wild I was afraid they might riot."

Jacob laughed, but Dean didn't crack a smile.

"How much do you want for it?"

"Oh, nothing in this store is for sale. You might say I'm selective about my customers and when I see one I like, I give them what they want for free. That cash register you see doesn't even work. I just like how it looks."

Jacob laughed again. "That doesn't sound like a very lucrative business model."
Dean smiled without parting his lips. "Don't worry, young fellow. Money's no object to me. You're going to love that album. Take it home and listen to it right now."

"Seriously, sir. How much do you want for it?"

"I am serious, Jacob. It's yours. And you know what else? I think your lady friend will love it as much as you. But don't hurry off. I might have some other selections you'd like. Stay and browse awhile."

The place was as fascinating as its owner, but something about the fellow and his establishment creeped Jacob out. He did search the album titles with his eyes long enough to think he saw a jazz album with a grandmotherly Janis Joplin on the cover and a photo of a gracefully aging Jim Morrison posing with a komodo dragon. Chills ran down his spine and for a moment when he turned back to Dean, he thought he saw the designs in his tie-died shirt swirl. It was only with an effort that he tore his eyes away.

"Is something wrong?" Dean asked in a paternal voice.

"Oh, no. Just had something on my mind."

"I see. Well go home and listen to Jimi. He cures what ails you I've always found."

"Okay. I'm going to lay this twenty on the counter here. I just don't feel right taking it for free."

"Suit yourself, Jacob. Things will work out with Kiley. You'll see."

Jacob got out the door as fast as he could. He tried to tell himself he hadn't heard him say her name. When the door closed behind him, he walked as fast as he could, not daring to look back.

'He looked like a demon hippy troll or something,' he thought. He'd walked a quarter mile before realizing he was soaked from rain. He worried that the Hendrix album would be wet and ruined before he had a chance to hear it. But somehow, as he recounted the experience, he doubted it.


When he reached his apartment, his cat, Pandora, greeted him at the door. He stroked her under the chin as she wrapped herself around his legs purring like a thunderstorm.

"At least you still want to be with me. 'You really don't have any idea how good looking you are.' Do you remember when she said that? Or 'I love how you're always trying to figure out the big questions. You're the most fascinating guy I've ever met.' Then last night, it turned into, 'you know what, Jacob, I don't think I can be with you any more. You love books more than me. You seem so weird sometimes. My friends think you might be autistic.' I don't think wanting to learn all the knowledge you can soak into your head means you're autistic. Do you think that, kitty cat? I guess it's just as well.
I'm not the kind of guy who needs a girlfriend anyway."

Six months they'd been together, he thought as he opened his turntable. He was twenty-five years old and six months was the longest he'd ever had a girlfriend. The only girl he'd ever been in love with too. He knew he was a strange guy, but she'd known that going in. He wondered why it had taken six months for it to bother her.

He took the record out of the cover and took a moment to admire it. It appeared to be in perfect condition. The vinyl gleamed in the light as he turned it in his hands. 'That guy was crazy,' he thought. But Savannah was a city suited to crazy people and sometimes crazy people were the ones who saw things best. Jacob loved music like moths loved nightlights. He knew he had a great singing voice too although he had no intentions of ever singing for anyone but himself. He shared it with Kiley a few times.

"Oh my God," she said the first time he'd sung for her. "You should be on American Idol. You would freaking win."

He remembered he'd sung Peaceful, Easy Feeling by The Eagles. He guessed it was corny, but she really had made him feel that way.

He put down the needle and in a moment, Hendrix's voice came pouring through the speakers. There was no doubt in Jacob's mind that it was truly him. The voice was as distinctive and haunting as ever, but mellowed and more precise than in his youth. His guitar playing too was undeniably Hendrix, but infinitely more polished than anything he'd played in the sixties. Jacob lay on his back and let the music wash over him. He dreamed of chasing Dylan Dean and Kiley in circles around a psychedelic sky, or were they chasing him? He couldn't tell.

When he woke some hours later, the record had finished playing. Outside, he could still hear the rain. The clock on the wall told him he'd been sleeping for nearly four hours. To make sure he wasn't crazy, he opened his laptop and Googled Hendrix. He'd died in London of a drug overdose on September 18, 1970. Jacob shook his head. 'Maybe it's some secret, unreleased stuff or something,' he thought. And how had that strange joker known Kiley's name? He didn't want to think about it.

Unconsciously, he reached into his pocket and felt two items. One was the twenty-dollar bill he'd left for Dean. He had no memory of the man returning it to him. He must have been a reverse pickpocket or something. The other was a folded pieced of notebook paper. He unfolded it and saw lyrics of a song written across the page in madly loopy, but exquisitely neat script. It seemed pure nonsense the first time through, but something about it compelled him to read the song over and over. Something clicked in his subconscious and the song's significance became clear. The words became ingrained in his mind. He began to hum them softly and soon a melody came to him. He began to sing with all the power his voice could muster. It swept him away. His voice and the song's lyrics seemed to comprise his total existence. He wondered who could have created it and why Dylan Dean had given it to him. It was the best gift he'd ever received.

He was thinking of telling Kiley about it before he realized he couldn't speak to her any more. He'd gotten in the habit of telling her almost everything on his mind and now it seemed that had been a mistake. She didn't care what he thought about any more. But the song understood his pain. It understood everything. It transcended everything. Singing it, he felt a hot rush through his brain that spread through his body. In his life, he'd never tried a drug stronger than pot, but he guessed this must have been what hard drugs felt like. But the feeling of well being that drugs elicited were an illusion. This was genuine. It was all the awareness and knowledge he'd sought in his lifelong habit of reading and thinking delivered in a compact package.

Awakening. Nirvana. That's what he had found. That's what the crazy bookstore owner Dylan Dean sneaked into his pocket. He realized his heart was racing and sweat was dripping from his face. The trip to and from the store and his memory of the man itself seemed to have a dreamlike quality now. But he still held the man's paper in his hands and Jimi Hendrix's impossible record still spun on his turntable. He walked across the floor to see it, needing to reassure himself again of its reality.

He picked the record off the table and read the label in the center of it. Jimi Hendrix. Are You Experienced? Recorded 1967. He closed his eyes tight, sure he was misreading it. But the same words awaited him when he opened them. With a trembling hand, he placed the needle on the record again. It whirred for a moment and then Hendrix's guitar broke out with Foxy Lady. He let the song play halfway through before switching it off. This was a record he'd owned for years. He knew every track by heart. It wasn't the same one he'd heard earlier: the impossible one sung by a man forty years older than he'd been the day he died.

"Am I going crazy?" he asked himself.

The paper with his magical song was still in his pocket. He unfolded it and saw the words still there in the same overly flourished script. It was proof enough that something profound had taken place today. For a long time he stared at the words, absently humming them as he did so. He felt like the words of the song were so large, so powerful, that they were more than his brain could contain.

"I've got to tell someone about this," he said to Pandora, who watched him warily from her perch atop the windowsill. "If I don't, I will literally explode."

He took his cell from his pocket and dialed Kiley's number. She answered on the third ring and he could tell she'd been sleeping.

"What do you want, Jacob?" she said.

"I've got to tell you about something that happened to me," he said.

"Okay," she said. "But make it quick. I've got to work in the morning."

He told her about walking through downtown Savannah in a haze until finding himself in an unfamiliar place, of entering the odd store and meeting Dylan Dean, the strangest human being he'd ever met. He told her about the Jimi Hendrix album with his too-old face on the cover, his older mellowed voice and more precise guitar riffs on the album, and of the miraculous song in his pocket. Then he told her how he'd looked at the record a second time only a moment ago, and seen it was not the one he'd purchased from Dylan Dean at all, but the same Hendrix record he'd owned for half his life. He told her how the song possessed him, how it was all he could think of, of how its lyrics defined everything he'd ever sought, and how he wanted to share it with her now so that she could feel its power too. He spoke in a rush, not because she'd told him to hurry, but because it was the most intense thing he'd ever discussed with anyone.

"That sounds like you had some crazy-ass acid trip or some shit," she said.

"No. It wasn't. I've got the song right here. I want to sing it to you."
She sighed. "I know it wasn't an acid trip. I just said that it sounds like one. But seriously Jacob, do you really think I can believe a story like that?"

"No, but I believe you can hear the truth in the words of this song."

She sighed again and something about the way she did it told Jacob that she did love him after all.

"Go ahead. You act like you're going to spontaneously combust or something if you don't."

He began to sing and didn't stop until he'd finished the last note. His voice sounded purer and stronger than it ever had before to him. When he was done, he wiped tears from his eyes.

"That sounds like something you'd write," she said. "Don't get me wrong. It's really good. But those sound like your words, not those of a weird stoner looking dude from some bookstore on The X-Files."

"No, Kiley. I can't take credit for it. I'm telling you the truth. It was this dude who slipped it in my pocket somehow. That and the twenty bucks I gave him too. I'm being dead serious."

"I know you are, Jacob. I really do. You know what I think? I think you had some kind of weird freak-out episode because I broke up with you. You dreamed or hallucinated all that shit and while you were in the midst of it, you sat down and wrote that song."

"But the handwriting isn't mine, Kiley. You should see it. It looks like how Satan would probably write."

"Is it all loopy, but straight up and down almost like some weird calligraphy?"

"Yeah. How'd you guess?"

"I saw you write like that one time. Remember we got really drunk making rum daiquiris and you wanted to play this spontaneous poetry game. That's how you were writing then. It kind of freaked me out, but then you passed out a couple of minutes later."

"I remember that night. Most of it at least. But I don't remember writing poetry. I remember waking up puking the next morning though."

"Yeah, I kept those poems. I liked them even though they didn't make a bit of sense. Kind of like that song you just sang except that's something else. It does sound like something out of this world even though I don't think I quite get it like you do."

He thought about what she said, trying to process it. "Okay," he finally said. "If everything you're saying is true, then something's really wrong with me. I'm bipolar or schizophrenic or something. On top of that, you tell me I seem autistic. So I guess I'm fubarred about ten different ways."

She laughed. "Hell yeah you are. It's okay though. You're kind of cute that way."

"It's okay? I'm certifiably crazy and it's okay?"

She didn't answer and the silence hung so long between them, he thought she'd hung up on him.

"Want me to come over and let me hear that song in person?" she finally said.

"Now? I thought you said you had to work tomorrow."

"I was lying."

He thought about it. He wasn't sure he would sing to her if she came over. The song that had consumed him so completely a few moments before now seemed of secondary importance.

"If you come over, are we still broken up?"

"Probably not," she said.


When she got to his house, they sat up most of the night. He didn't sing the song for her, but they did listen to Jimi Hendrix as they made out on his couch. When the sun was rising the next morning, he watched her sleeping in his bed, and thought of how only the day before he'd been so sure it was a sight he would never see again. Outside, he could hear the wind whistling. He threw on a pair of shorts and left her sleeping. He took the paper with his song off the night table and stepped outside. Although it was a clear morning, he couldn't recall another day when the wind had howled with such fury.

What you hold so dear in the dead of the night, let it go in the morning light.

That was a line from the song. He walked to the edge of the street with the paper in hand and when a particularly strong gust struck his face, he let the it go. He watched it swirl higher and higher into the air until it was out of sight.

"Dylan Dean will find it," he said to himself. Then he went inside and snuggled close to Kiley.

The song was still in his mind. He hummed it until he drifted off to sleep.

The Pitch

He was dreaming about the pitch again when the phone woke him. He lifted it off the bedside table.

"Is this Stanley Maher?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes."

"Sir, do you know my father, Michael Etheridge?"

Stanley couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Yes, ma'am. I'm familiar with the man. I've never had the pleasure of meeting his daughter though."

"You wouldn't have. We haven't been on speaking terms until the last couple of weeks. He asked me to call you. He says he has something important to tell you and wants to do it in person."

"What's your name, Michael Ethridge's daughter?"

"Sandra." Her tone suggested she was surprised he wanted to know.

"Why are you calling me instead of him?"

She took a deep breath. "He's dying," she said. "He hasn't been able to get out of bed for the last three days. He's got cancer. I'm not even sure what kind. He won't talk to me about it except to say he's known for the last six months."

"Don't feel bad, Sandra. He didn't tell me either."

An overlong silence stretched between them.

"Mr. Maher?" she finally said. "Are you going to come? I'm afraid he's not going to last much longer. He can barely speak as it is."

"I'll be there," he said.

"Thank you. It will mean a lot to him."

He lay in bed another ten minutes thinking before his wife finally stirred. "Were you talking on the phone?" she asked.

"It was Mike's daughter."

"Mike's daughter? I didn't realize he had a daughter."

"Apparently they've been estranged until the last couple of weeks."

"What did she want?"

"She said he's dying of cancer and isn't going to last much longer. He wants to tell me something in person. I need to be there today."

"You're going to go to New York today? Just like that?"

"Yes. I have to. He would do the same for me."

"Are you sure about that? I'm sorry that he's dying, but I can't pretend to not believe he's one of the most selfish, self-centered, arrogant men I've ever known."

"I know how you feel about him, Sharon. And you're not alone. But there's a different side to him too. He's a good man down deep. He loves me like a brother. All that other stuff is just a mask."

"You know what, honey? If you wear a mask long enough, you can't take it off."

"I know, but I'm going to see him."

****************************************

Three hours later, he was boarding a plane in Atlanta bound for New York. He saw the flickers of recognition on the faces of a few people passing by, but thankfully no one approached him. He wasn't disappointed to find his celebrity waning with time. At his window seat, he watched the city below him turn to miniature as the plane lifted off. He let his mind drift. He rarely allowed himself to think about that day although he'd been forced to talk about it plenty in the thirty five years since on sports talk radio and television shows. It was the single most painful event of his life. It had shaped him as only the most painful things can.

He'd been in his fourth year of Major League ball that year and he'd had a better season than he could have imagined possible. He was the Braves' closer: the guy who came into the game in the ninth inning when the team was leading and needed someone to shut the other side down for good. He'd finished the season with a league best 45 saves and 101 strikeouts. People were saying he was a shoo-in to win the Cy Young Award as the best pitcher in the league for the 2011 season. He'd always known he had the potential to be good, but this magnitude of success amazed him.

He'd grown up on a South Georgia farm and taken only a casual interest in sports until he started high school. That's when he discovered he could throw a ball harder and further than almost anyone he knew. He hadn't considered playing an organized sport until his P.E. teacher, Mr. Brant, who was also the baseball coach, approached him in the lunchroom. He'd been watching the boys play flag football and was impressed by the fifty yard bombs Stanley was tossing with a little more than a flick of his right wrist.

"Why don't you come out and play baseball with us this year, Son?" he asked. "You've got a great arm on you. I bet we could turn you into a hell of a a pitcher."

"I'll think about it. My dad probably needs me to help with the planting though. It's that time of year."

"Tell you what, Son. See if your dad will let you come to practice one day and just see how you like it."

"Okay, Mr. Brant."

A couple of days later, he stayed after school for practice. His dad grumbled about needing him even that day. The north field needed harrowing and he was only one man. But he supposed it could wait until the weekend.

The first time he threw a pitch off the mound, he'd tripped and fell. The ball kicked up dirt three feet in front of the plate. The other kids guffawed at how spastic he'd looked trying to wind up like the coach showed him. Stanley's face turned beet-red.

"Forget about the windup for now," Coach Brant told him. "Just throw the ball to the catcher."

Fueled by anger and adrenaline, he threw the ball as hard as he could. This time it hit the catcher's mitt with such force that the boy who caught it yelped in pain. After the catcher put on two batting gloves under his mitt to cushion his hand, Stanley threw about ten more that split the middle of the plate with the same velocity.

"Boys," Coach Brant said, "I think we found us a pitcher."

Stanley had found something too. He'd found out being a pitcher was what he was born to be. It was like discovering he'd owned a magical gift all his life and never known it. His father allowed him to play, grudgingly at first, but after watching his son strike out eleven batters and pitch a shutout in his very first game, he was sold. Stanley's baseball career had begun.

After his senior year, he was drafted by the Atlanta Braves in the very first round and after three seasons of mowing down minor league batters, he got the call to join the Braves. They tried him as a starter at first, but Stanley struggled in that role. He had a pattern of pitching well, even dominantly, for the first couple of innings, but as the game wore on, his arm would tire and his velocity would suffer.

"You've got to hold back a bit," the Braves pitching coach, Frank Zion, was always telling him. "You can't expect to not tire if you're out there trying to hit triple digits on the radar gun with every pitch. You've got to conserve."

Stanley didn't doubt the wisdom of this but couldn't bring himself to follow through with it. Every game he'd come out pumped up, ready to spit fire at the opposition, but after about the third or fourth inning, his fastball would be down by almost ten miles per hour and his control would suffer as well. After a disastrous outing in Philadelphia in which he gave up eight runs and three homers in two innings, he lost his spot in the starting rotation.

"Let's try him in the bullpen," the Braves manager, Leo O'Steen suggested. "If he can come out and sling smoke for an inning or two and have a seat, we'll be in business."

"Sounds like a plan," Zion agreed.

Stanley didn't care for the idea at first. He saw it as an insulting demotion. But when he found he truly could let his hundred mile per hour fastball fly and throw in the splitter he was starting to perfect as well, he saw the wisdom of his coaches' decision. He blossomed and made the all-star team during his second year in the league. In his third year, he was given the role of closer and in his fourth, he and the rest of his teammates became the talk of the major leagues. They won 104 games that season and cruised to the National League pennant where they faced the mighty Yankees in the 2011 World Series.

**************************

Looking down on the fluffy clouds from his seat thirty thousand feet in the air, Stanley smiled to himself as he thought about what a different person he was in those days. He was brash, cocky, and reckless. He said and did anything he pleased. He wondered how anyone had been able to stand being around him. Maybe that was part of what made that team so good though. They played every game like they had no doubt of winning and barely offered their opponents the slightest respect. They were head and shoulders above every team in the National League that year and wanted everyone to know it.

But the Yankees team they met in the World Series was their equal. The two teams battled toe-to-toe like heavyweight boxers for six games. Every game was decided by a single run. The seventh and deciding one was no different. The fire-balling left-handed rookie, Jimmy Kent, had started the game and pitched a gem through eight innings. The mighty Yankees had managed only three singles, a walk, and not a single run against him. The Braves led 3-0 going into the ninth on the strength of a three-run homer by their usually light hitting shortstop, Sammy Linds, in the sixth.

Kent looked strong to start the ninth as well. He got the first two batters easily. Mateo Cruz, the Yankee shortstop grounded to third and Sandy Jackson, the catcher, flied out to left. With two outs and the bases empty, the Yanks sent a pinch hitter to the plate. The capacity crowd rose to its feet. chopping their foam tomahawks like a single entity as Rafael Christos, the Yankees' last hope, dug in. Kent wasted no time getting the count to 0-2 with two fast strikes on the outside corner. But then Christos fouled off four straight pitches before Kent finally missed the plate, not once, but three consecutive times. Christos fouled off two more pitches on a full count before walking on a ball off the inside corner that could have gone either way.

With a runner on first and two outs, the next batter, Michael Reynolds, hit a clean single. Then Javier Linares walked on four pitches. With two outs, the Yankees had worked the bases loaded and the crowd, cheering themselves hoarse, grew restless. The Braves manager ambled to the mound at a snail's pace to give Stanley a few extra moments to get loose in the bullpen. Kent grimaced as he handed the ball to his skipper, disappointed not to finish the job. But the crowd cheered wildly for him as he walked to the bench. The kid had pitched his butt off and they still were still confident of winning as their ace closer, Stanley Maher, trotted onto the field. One out was all they needed, but the crowd was well aware that the man who loomed on deck, Michael Etheridge, was not going to be an easy one.

Stanley remembered how Etheridge strode to the plate that night as casually as if he were playing in a spring training game rather than the seventh game of the World Series. He seemed almost sleepy as he stepped into the batter's box and took his stance. But there was nothing sleepy about the man's eyes as he stared Stanley down. He was like a sleek, ebony jaguar poised to pounce on its prey. Also in his fourth season as a pro, he'd terrorized American League pitchers all season long, hitting 45 homers with 140 RBIs. The match-up was a baseball fan's dream: the best relief pitcher in the National League facing down the best hitter in the American League with everything on the line.

Stanley remembered thinking he would have been intimidated by Etheridge if he wasn't so completely confident in himself. As it was, he'd wound up and thrown a fastball that painted the black of the outside corner like a second coat. Etheridge watched it pass and when the umpire called it a strike, he made no reaction except to stand up straight for a moment and squeeze his bat. On the second pitch, Stanley threw him his best splitter and Etheridge swung for the fences. But he whiffed as the ball fell off the table just as it reached him. The radar gun read 97 and the crowd could barely contain themselves.

The count was 0-2 and Stanley had Etheridge right where he wanted him. Nicky Ferguson, the catcher, came to the mound to discuss strategy.

"Stan the Man, you need to waste this one," he told him with his mitt over his mouth to prevent a couple of million people from reading his lips. "He's sitting dead red and he'll swing at anything in the neighborhood. Throw it half a foot outside and I guarantee he swings and misses and we're celebrating."

"Let me bust him inside, Nicky. That's the last thing he expects. Fastball in on his hands. He'll be frozen and we'll get the call."

"Try that if he takes the waste pitch. No need for nothing sweet Oh and two."

"Get back down there, Nick. I'm striking him out right now."

Stanley remembered Nick studying his eyes for a moment, tapping him on the shoulder with his mitt and going back behind the plate. In the years since, he'd spent many hours wondering what would have happened if he'd throw the pitch where Ferguson wanted it. Instead, Ferguson moved his target on the inside corner and Stanley pitched it there. Etheridge swung and made contact.

Jammed him. That was Stanley's initial thought. Etheridge hit the ball not on the sweet spot, but just above the trademark. But as he turned to see if the leftfielder had a play on it, he was shocked to see how far the ball was carrying. His teammate kept going back all the way to the warning track. He made a desperate leap for it there, but it dropped over the fence just beyond his reach. Michael Etheridge had won the Series for the Yanks with a grand slam home run. Etheridge circled the bases and was mobbed by his teammates at the plate. The Yankees celebrated as the Braves looked on in shock. Stanley felt helpless to do anything but stand on the mound in a state of disbelief.

"I jammed him," he kept muttering to himself. "How could he have hit a home run when I jammed him?"

Eventually, Nick walked to the mound and put an arm around his shoulders. "Shit, man," he said. "That's baseball. It was a good pitch and he hit it out. What the hell are you gonna do? That's just baseball."

"Should have wasted it outside like you said," Stanley told him.

"Don't tell yourself that kind of shit, Stanley. You'll go crazy like that. Let's get out of this hellhole."

He didn't know how long he would have stood there shell-shocked if Nicky hadn't helped him off the field. He honestly couldn't remember anything after that. He didn't remember undressing or showering after the game. He didn't remember driving home. He did remember waking up the next morning and wishing it was all a bad dream. But one glance at the headline of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution told him otherwise.


Maher Blows It, it read in huge, black, block letters. Under the headline was a photo of him standing on the mound hanging his head with his hands on his knees after Etheridge hit the slam.

Maher blows it. For the rest of his life, the headline and the photo clung to his memory like an albatross. No matter what else he might accomplish, this is how he would be remembered: as the guy who lost a World Series for his teammates and the entire city....hell, the entire South for that matter. He might win the Cy Young award for the season. The Braves might offer him a hefty contract for the next one. But all of those things were hollow now. He was the goat. If he played in the league twenty-five years, if he made the Hall of Fame one day, this was still how he would be remembered: as the guy who lost the Series when it was all but won, the guy who snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. And there was nothing to do but live with it.

*********************************

"We will be reaching the New York area in about fifteen minutes," the pilot announced over the loudspeaker. "It's a beautiful day and we're looking at clear skies all the way to the runway. We and the crew want to thank you for choosing American Airlines this afternoon. We hope you've enjoyed your flight."

I was hardly on it, Stanley thought.

An old timer approached him as he waited for his bag at the carousel.

"My condolences, Mr. Maher," he said, offering a hand, and grinning ear to ear. "Should have wasted that pitch, you know."

Stanley had learned to be gracious when faced with such encounters a long time ago although a part of him still wanted to ask such people if they wanted to be reminded of the worst day of their life thirty-five freaking years later.

"Tell me about it," he said, putting on a smile and shaking the man's hand.

The boob's wife took their picture, landed a couple of more barbs Stanley had already heard about a thousand times and went on his way. Watching him go, Stanley figured it would be this way as long as he drew breath.

He rented a car to drive out of the city to Mike's place. As he drove, he let his mind wander again.

After the Series that year, Mike and Stanley's career went in opposite directions. Mike's star continued to shine while Stanley struggled. In his whole career, he'd never had control problems, but afterward, he found he couldn't find the plate with a flashlight and a map. He knew it was a mental block. He even hired a personal psychologist, but nothing helped. The Braves sent him to the minors for a rehabilitation stint around mid-season, but when his problems persisted, they traded him to the Boston Red Sox. He played for Boston a grand total of two months before they released him after a disastrous outing in which he walked four consecutive batters on eighteen pitches.

He bounced around the minors for about three years after that before finally calling it quits. After fiddling around with broadcasting for a couple of years, he got a call from the Braves' organization asking him if he was interested in coaching. Wanting to be back on the field again in any capacity possible, he accepted. He'd never thought of himself as a coach, but discovered that he loved it. The teaching aspect was what he enjoyed most. That and being able to wear the uniform of the team he loved again. Soon after taking the coaching job, he met Sharon. When they first met, she had no idea he'd ever been a baseball player. That suited Stanley just fine.

He couldn't deny that the pitch Etheridge hit out of the park changed him personally as well. He was no longer the cocky, devil-may-care scoundrel of his youth. He had been humbled. He became more soft spoken and kinder. He noticed people liked him better because of it. He and Sharon married and had two children. One of his daughters had given him a grandson and the other had one on the way. He had to admit that in spite of being the ultimate goat and washing out of baseball, his life was good. He supposed everything happened for the best, but even thirty-five years later, he couldn't suppress the pain of losing that game.

Michael Etheridge's life took the opposite track. His twenty year career made him a Hall of Famer. He finished with 550 homeruns and a .300 career batting average. In spite of his greatness, he'd bounced around to six different teams and developed the reputation of being difficult and querulous. He feuded with teammates, fans, managers, and umpires, and was known to be aloof and unapproachable off the field as well.

The first time Stanley met him off the field was in Etheridge's final playing season. A radio personality, Doc Griffin, who had a nationally syndicated show, contacted Stanley to see if he was willing to sit down with Mike and discuss the home run that wrecked his career. He'd initially balked at the idea, but decided to do it after discussing it with Sharon. She said it might be cathartic. He arrived ten minutes early to the studio, but found Etheridge already there, immaculately groomed and wearing a tailored pinstripe suit. Stanley sat next to him as they waited for the host to call them in awkward silence.

"How's it going, Mike?" Stanley finally asked. "You're looking awful fit for forty. You've put on a ton of muscle since the last time I saw you, but I don't think you look a day younger."

"I have to stay fit," he answered. "That's the only way I can still be playing at my age."

Stanley took it as a slight since he and Etheridge were the same age, but Stanley, who was growing a paunch, was obviously not in playing shape. The man ruined his budding career and now had the gall to insult him to his face as well. He was trying to think of a suitable comeback when Doc Griffin's assistant called them into the studio.

"So what was going through your mind just before you threw that fateful 0-2 pitch, Stanley?" Doc Griffin asked him on-air.

"Nothing at all except striking the SOB out and winning the damn World Series. I'd thrown him two pitches on the outside edge and figured I could sneak one by him on the inside corner on the third pitch."

"You didn't consider wasting one about a foot outside to see if he'd take a swing at it?"

"You sound like my catcher, Doc. To be honest, that is what Nicky Ferguson wanted me to do on that third pitch, but I was too cocky for my own good in those days and I talked him into going for the strikeout."

"Any regrets about that decision, Stanley?"

Stanley chuckled. "Not at all," he lied. "I went for the strikeout and big Mike here hit it out. Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. That's what it's all about."

"What about you, Mike?" Doc asked. "What was going through your mind when that pitch was on the way?"

"It looked big as a grapefruit coming out of his hand, Doc. I just hit it and the rest was history."

"Was it the pitch you were looking for?"

"You know, I've never been the kind of player who looked for pitches. I just see the ball and hit it. That's the way I've always played the game."

"You know, after that game, you guys' careers went on different tracks. Stanley, you were beset by control problems that eventually led to you being released, and Mike, you went on to have a Hall of Fame Career. How much of that was due to that pitch and that home run?"

"That's a question I've asked myself ever since," Stanley answered. "If it did have a lasting affect, it certainly wasn't a conscious one. Baseball can be a slippery eel and it did seem to get away from me after I thought I had that sucker by the tail at the beginning of my career. I could speculate all day about whether it gave me some sort of psychological block, but I don't know. I'd like to think that wasn't the case, and to blame my lack of success afterward all on one pitch feels like a cop-out to me. So I'm not going to make that excuse, Doc."

"What about you, Mike?" Doc asked "Did that home run vault you into having a great career?"

"Not at all," said Etheridge. "A career doesn't hinge on a single pitch or a home run. Not if you have the kind of strong mind you need to thrive in this game. Only two things have allowed me to have the career I've enjoyed: God-given talent and a self-driven work ethic."

"No one's ever questioned your talent or your work-ethic, Mike. But plenty of people have questioned your ability to get along with teammates, managers, and fans. What do you have to say to those people?"

"I don't have anything to say to them. With me, what you see is what you get: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I turned forty years old a couple of months ago, Doc. And I'm not about to change my ways now."

"What would you say to people who accuse you of arrogance, Mike?"

"Like I just said, I don't have anything to say to those people. Did you have any more questions about baseball, Doc?"

The interview continued in a similar vein for another ten minutes. Stanley managed to get in a few words here and there, but overall, he felt like a third wheel. Inwardly, he was seething. In a few short minutes, Mike Etheridge had insulted him in about three different ways. When the interview ended, he confronted him as they took the elevator back to the main lobby.

"So what you were really trying to say, Mike? That I washed out of baseball because, unlike you, I'm weak-minded and untalented? Is that about right?" He tried to say it in a lighthearted tone, but couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. He'd never disliked anyone upon first meeting them as much as he detested Mike Etheridge.

"Hey, Stan, it was just an interview. I like to give them a little spice, you know? Makes it more interesting."

"You know, I used to be a redneck. Back then, I would have popped you in the mouth for saying that kind of shit. As it is, I'm fast losing my civilized ways."

"Let me know up front, Stanley. Is this a racial thing?"

Stanley felt his blood pressure spike and his face turn beet-red. He thought he was really going to punch the man right in the mouth and actually felt his fist balling up to do the deed when the elevator reached the lobby and the door opened. A group of businessmen were waiting to board. They looked at Stanley and Mike with puzzled expressions. He knew the anger on his face must have been clear as day. For some reason, the whole situation seemed absurdly comical as soon as he stepped off the elevator. He just wanted to get away from Michael Etheridge as fast as he could and never see the asshole's face again. But just as he was going to walk away, he touched him on the arm.

"Hey man," he said in a conciliatory voice. "We got off on the wrong foot. Let me buy you a drink." A part of Stanley still wanted to punch him, but the edge of anger was gone.

"Sure," he said. "Why the hell not?"

They found a bar and drank beer while they munched on a bowl of peanuts and watched a baseball game on the big screen TV.

"Sorry for what I said in the interview. It was uncalled for. Sometimes I catch myself saying shit and I say to myself, damn, Michael, no wonder everybody thinks you're a conceited, self-centered son of a bitch. Every word out of your mouth supports the notion."

"You're trying to tell me you're not a conceited, self-centered son of a bitch?" Stanley asked.

"No, man, I'm really not. It's just the words I say. It's not how I really feel."

"So change the words you say."

"I've been telling myself that for about four decades now."

They drank four beers apiece while they talked and Etheridge bought them all out of guilt. They talked about everything except that World Series game and somewhere along the way, Stanley realized they were becoming friends. After they left the bar, they shook hands and Etheridge said,

"I'm glad we did this, Stan the Man. It meant a lot to me. Someone will call us to talk about this thing again and you should take them up on it. I'll be nicer next time. I promise. I don't want to fight no redneck like you anyway. You take care of yourself and tell your wife and kids I said hello."

"Will do, Mike. It was nice to meet you too."

Mike was right. Every few months he'd get a call from someone asking he and Etheridge to come talk about the pitch and the homer on their show. He and Mike always went out for a beer or three afterward. People commented on the good chemistry the two of them seemed to have and how they genuinely liked each other. Talking about the thing wasn't his favorite subject, but it turned into a good source of supplementary income, and he always looked forward to seeing Mike. Mike only met Sharon once, but once was enough for her to hate him. Stanley and she had met Mike and his college-aged girlfriend at the time at a restaurant in Atlanta. Mike was on his worst behavior, boasting about his baseball exploits and making back-handed jibes at Stanley along the way.

"You know what, Mike," his wife had finally told him with her lips pursed in the way Stanley had learned meant she was good and truly pissed. "You might have been a great ball player, but you are one of the rudest, most classless human beings I've ever met."

Mike laughed it off, but Stanley had taken Sharon home before she tried to carve the man up with her steak knife.

*******************************

Stanley couldn't help but smile about the incident now as he reached Mike's house in the suburbs. It was too large of a house for a single man and looked to be in general disrepair. The yard was unmowed and the hedges in desperate need of trimming. He rang the doorbell and Mike's daughter answered it. Stanley immediately recognized the intensity of her father's eyes. She was an attractive, slender woman, but looked as if she'd lived too much too young.

"Hi, Mr. Maher," she said. "Thank you for coming. Hurry. I think he's been holding on just to talk to you. I don't think he's got much longer." She led him to the bedroom.

Stanley gasped when he saw him. Mike's eyes were closed, but he opened them when Stanley walked in and seemed to perk up the slightest bit. His every breath was a labor and Stanley could hardly believe the brittle, shrunken skeleton lying there was the same impeccable, chiseled man he'd become friends with. He wondered how long he'd suffered in silence with this disease before it got the best of him. It took Stanley a moment to overcome his shock and realize Mike wanted him to lean down so he could speak to him.

"What was your first thought when I hit that ball?" he whispered into Stanley's ear.

"I thought I jammed you," Stanley answered.

You couldn't believe I hit it out when you jammed me like that, could you?"

"No, Mike. I really couldn't. It seemed like you must have had superhuman strength to do that."

Stanley wasn't surprised. It seemed somehow just like Mike to want to talk about the home run in his dying breath. Mike gathered his strength to tell him something else.

"You could say that," he said. "I was on steroids. That's why I was so strong."

"Steroids? You couldn't have been. They tested us like crazy. You couldn't have gotten away with it."

"I got around the tests. I knew how. I cheated, Stan. My whole career. I hit that homer because I cheated. You deserved better, Stan. I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you. You're just trying to make me feel better about it. It would have come out if you were juicing. People would have known and it would have come out."

Mike shook his head and Stanley thought it was the saddest gesture he'd ever seen. "Not if you were as careful as me. All my drugs, all my records are in the basement. Go find them."

He reached for Stanley's hand and held it with surprising strength. "I'm nothing but a cheater, Stan. Everything I ever accomplished was a lie. But I just want to thank you for being my friend anyway." He let go of Stanley's hand, closed his eyes and died.

Stanley stood in the room for several minutes, unable to speak. Sandra stood next to him with dry eyes. "I suppose I have to plan a funeral now," she said.

He noted her coldness, but supposed Mike was never much of a father to her. "I'll help you," he told her.

"Thank you," she answered. "Are you going to look in the basement?"

"I'd rather not. He might have been delusional there at the end. Besides, if he was telling the truth, I'd rather not know."

"It's true," she said. "I saw all that stuff when I went down there the other day. Syringes, drugs and tons of notebooks with records he kept."

Stanley nodded, feeling tears on his cheeks. "Did you love him?" he asked.

"Not until the end."

*********************

Stanley spoke at his funeral.

"Michael Etheridge became one of my best friends," he said. "He was a hard man to know, but I came to understand him, perhaps as well as anyone, during the time I knew him. He was passionate and proud. He loved his sport and took great pride in his accomplishments. He was the ultimate competitor. Many found him to be aloof and difficult to get along with, but that wasn't the true essence of Mike. The Mike I came to know was good humored, kind and very loyal. Even though speaking about the home run he hit against me thirty-five years ago was one of my least favorite things to talk about, spending time with Mike was one of the things I enjoyed most. I learned many things from him and I will miss him. I just wish he'd let more people see the side of him that I got to know. If they had, everyone would have loved him as much as me."

*************************

"What did he want to tell you so badly?" Sharon asked a few days after the funeral. Stanley thought about it. He thought about taking all Mike's syringes, drugs, and record books out of the basement and building a bonfire with them in Mike's backyard while his daughter watched.

"He just wanted me to know how thankful he was that we were friends," he told her.

"Maybe I was wrong about him after all," she said. "He seemed like a lonely man. I'm glad you were his friend."

"He was a good man," Stanley said.

Me and Bonnie Jean

In the Navy, I spent a lot of time alone, especially when the ship was in port in Norfolk, Virginia. I don't know exactly why I didn't socialize with my shipmates more. I think the bottom line was that I didn't feel we had much in common. Besides that, I'm just the kind of guy who revels in solitude sometimes. I considered it a pretty good morning to be able to wake up and realize I could spend the day doing whatever I wanted without anyone trying to convince me otherwise. The flip side was that I would start to hate being alone so much after awhile. I would think of something I'd like to talk about. but there was no one around to listen.

I would say to myself, "Man, Charlie, you've got to quit being the Lone Ranger and make some friends or find a girlfriend or something." But this seemed easier said than done, and I continued to do my own thing. I lived on the ship, but despised being there during off-duty time. Often, on weekends, I would drive to Virginia Beach, go for a run on the beach, then go to a shopping center that featured a Barnes & Noble bookstore, a giant music store, and a movie theater. It was like the place was tailor-made for me: three of my favorite things--books, movies, and music all rolled into one.

By the time it got dark, I found myself faced with two unattractive options. I could go back to the ship for the evening to maybe crawl in my rack to read a book until I got tired enough to sleep or head to some night spot to drink a beer or two and check out the women. On most nights, the only thing I wanted to do less than go to a club was return to the ship. So to a club I would reluctantly go. I'd order a beer and sit at the bar sipping it, watching everyone else seem to have a good time as I tried my best to get into the spirit of the place. This was a tough chore on most nights because I've found that drinking alone at a bar is one of the most depressing activities a human can engage in.

So one particular night of this type, a couple of months before I embarked on my second six month Mediterranean cruise, I went alone to a club called Country World in Virginia Beach. I chose it because it was a place I hadn't been to before and I was curious about it. Also, I was in a country music phase at the time. But the difference between me and most of the other club's denizens was that I was content to sit and listen to the music dressed as a normal human being while almost everyone else was dolled up in their cowboy best, line dancing until their shiny boots gave them blisters.

Soon after taking my seat and ordering a Bud Lite, I decided this would be a one beer stop rather than the usual two. I had about half a swallow left when my waitress handed me another one. "This is compliments of the two ladies over there," she told me, pointing out two tall, attractive women a few tables over. They waved to me and I waved back, flattered by the attention. I couldn't remember such an event ever happening to me before. I sat back again in a much better mood and had only taken a couple of swallows of the free beer when I noticed the two girls motioning me to come speak to them.

Flattered again, I went to their table and took a seat.

"My sister thinks you're cute," one of them told me.

"Shut up, Sarah," the sister said, embarrassed.

"Don't let her fool you," Sarah said. "She's not shy."

I introduced myself and the sister told me her name was Bonnie Jean. The two girls seemed to be in a good mood and seemed to have drunk more than a couple of beers themselves. For some reason, I felt comfortable around them right away. At some point, Sarah drifted away, leaving me alone with Bonnie Jean. I learned that she was from West Virginia. She had been enrolled in college there until recently. She'd come o Virginia Beach to live with her older sister until she figured out what to do next. We talked for a long time and at some point, Sarah drifted away. The band started playing a slow song and Bonnie Jean asked me if I wanted to dance. Unlike the boot scootin' boogie, I could handle a slow dance with no problem. Bonnie Jean pressed herself against me like we were going steady. Her forwardness took me aback somewhat, but on the other hand, I was thrilled that the night was offering me much more than I'd expected.

After the dance, we went back to our seats and talked more, holding hands, kissing, and drinking beer at a slow but steady pace. We stayed until our waitress announced last call. Sarah still had not materialized.

"I think Sarah already left," she told me. "Would you mind giving me a ride home?"

"Sure," I said, thinking that it was awful convenient for her sister to disappear like that. So I drove her home. When we got there, she asked me to come in. In her room, we sat up talking and making out most of the night. It occurred to me that she was the first girl I'd so much as touched since joining the Navy almost two years before. It also occurred to me that had I been back home, I likely would not have been interested in her simply because, although she was attractive and warm, she probably wouldn't have passed my standards test. But in Norfolk, Virginia, playing the part of the loneliest man alive, she suited me just fine. Things with Bonnie Jean that night progressed to their inevitable conclusion and afterward, I felt a bit unsure of the whole thing because I could tell she was hoping it was going to be more than a one night stand.

Around six thirty that morning, I told her I was heading back to the ship to get some sleep. She said, "Don't you want to go get some breakfast first?"

So we went to Denny's and got pancakes and eggs, and she seemed surprisingly chipper for someone who also hadn't slept all night. After breakfast, I finally extricated myself from her and headed back to the ship where I climbed in my rack and slept most of the day away. I told myself that although I liked Bonnie Jean just fine and enjoyed a perfectly awesome night with her, I didn't need to call her again because I knew she wasn't someone I genuinely wanted a relationship with. She wasn't someone I felt comfortable taking home to present to my family and say, "Here's my girl! Isn't she amazing?"

But only a couple of days passed before I caved and called her. We went to a dinner and a movie and afterward, she invited me over again where I wound up spending the night once more although I had to get up early the next morning to drive back to the ship. I started staying with her four or five nights out of the week and found it much more pleasurable than spending every night in my rack on the ship which was one of six racks in a cube and one of about sixty in the open bay area where the enlisted men lived. Only a couple of weeks passed before she dropped the "L" word on me.

I had some reservations about it, but I gave it back to her because I wasn't about to ruin a good thing and also tried to convince myself it was true. Besides, in the back of my mind, I knew the cruise was approaching and then I would be six months gone haze gray and underway as the Navy saying goes, and most likely that would be the end of me and Bonnie Jean. In the meantime, I was surprised by the intensity of our little relationship. It certainly centered around one thing and I had never before in my life--23 years at that point-- had that one thing on a regular basis. She was only nineteen years old, but much more experienced in that area than I. She confessed to me that I wasn't the first guy she had picked up from a club since she'd moved to Norfolk, but I was the only one she wanted to stay the next day. I asked her how many others there had been. "Not that many," she said.

She began to disengage from me a couple of weeks before the cruise. She told me her sister didn't want me staying over so much any more, which seemed a little odd to me because her sister was always extremely nice to me and seemed to like having me around. She also became less available when I tried to call her. All of this would have been fine if I'd been the one breaking things off, but it didn't suit me that it was her.

A couple of days before I was to leave, I finally got her on the telephone. "So what's the deal?" I asked her. One day you're saying you love me and a couple of weeks later I can't get you on the phone and it doesn't seem like you want me to stay over any more."

"I don't know," she said. "I still like you and everything. I guess I need some space or something."

"In a couple of days, you're going to get all the space you need," I told her. "You are going to come see me off when the ship leaves aren't you?"

"I don't know. I'll try to make it."

Her sudden indifference mystified me. I racked my brain trying to figure out if I'd done something to change things, but couldn't come up with anything. On the day the cruise began, Bonnie Jean was nowhere to be seen among the friends and family of my shipmates' coming to see us off. A week or two into the cruise, I made arrangements to have flowers delivered to her and also wrote her a very sappy, heartfelt letter. She wrote me back a single time saying she had received the roses and that it was very sweet of me to send them. That was the extent of it. I tried to call her twice during the cruise when we came into port, but she didn't answer. When my ship finally returned to Norfolk, I called her one last time before I drove home to Georgia for leave. Her sister answered and informed me that Bonnie Jean had met a Marine and they'd gotten married.

When I got off the phone with her, I had to laugh at the absurdity of it. I had no ill feelings towards Bonnie at all. In the final analysis, we'd had a good time and that was all it was meant to be. The experience also served as an initiation of sorts to me as it was the first genuine relationship I'd ever been involved in.

Thankfully it wasn't the last.