Payton Hidden Away (21 page)

“Ritchie, what’s the matter with
you?” I shout, hands up. But he’s a maniac, like the Tasmanian Devil—that
whirling and spinning dog-wolf thing that slobbers all over itself, engorged in
rage and consumed with hate. Ritchie charges me, holds up, backs off, charges
again and stops just short, his face flushed.

“You shut up!”
he shouts. “You shut the
fuck
up! You started this!”

My hands are
still raised, my heart pounding with fear. “Started what? What did I do? I
didn’t do anything!”

Ritchie stands
there, his shirt soaked with sweat while looking like he’ll charge again. I
think he wants to, but he’s conflicted. Something’s holding him back, and
finally, he turns away, his fists coming unclenched. He looks winded but
calmer. “She was supposed to be mine…”

“You’re scaring
the shit out of me.”

“She was
supposed to be mine…”

“Is that what
this is about? You and Joanne?”

“No. I mean,
yes, she’s a part of it, but no, that’s not what this is about. It’s about me
and you. We were supposed to be neighbors. The backyard barbecues, the wives,
kids—maybe a dog. The whole deal.”

“You nearly gave
me a heart attack.”

“But yer leavin’,”
he says. “You don’t care about friendship or nothin’ else. You’re just willing
to up and go. This Saturday and you’re all the way gone.”

“Ritchie, look
at yourself. Is this healthy?” I shake my head. “Things change, man. People
change. People grow up, and sometimes they move away. Sometimes—”

“I don’t want
things to change! That’s my point! What’s so great about OGA or OGU or wherever
the fuck it is you’re goin’?”

“UGA, and the
answer is I don’t know. I have no clue what to expect. What I’m doing is giving
it a shot. Am I scared? Hell yes, I’m scared. I’m moving away from my home. I’m
moving away from my best friend, and that’s killing me. I’m moving away from my
girlfriend, the town I grew up in…everything. And I’m doing it because things
change. But I’m giving it a shot, because I want something more than to just
scrape by for the rest of my life, and if I stayed here working for scraps, then
that’s exactly what I’d be doing.”

“But Saturday? Why
you gotta go so soon? What’s so special about that job you’re takin’ down
there?”

“Nothing. It’s a
job. It’ll help with tuition.”

“So, why can’t
you work here over the summer?”

“Because there might
not be a job waiting for me in the fall.”

“You’re leavin’
Kristie behind.”

“It’s not like
it’s permanent. I’m coming back for her.”

“Yeah, you say
that now. Then you’ll forget all about her. And me.”

“This isn’t easy
for me, Rich. Life is tough. For everyone. It’s full of hard decisions that
come with big consequences. High risk, high reward. But you gotta try, or
what’s the point?”

He frowns. I can
almost see him sorting things out, yet the pieces fail to click.

“Look,” I say,
my tone calm. “You’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand. You have
the potential to be a Major League ballplayer. You have the potential to be a
multi-millionaire. You could play for the Braves, and we’d still be able to
hang out. We’ll even paint my name on the fourth row, fourth seat up in the
stands. It’ll be just like here, only better. And once that happens, you’ll
have girls sending their underwear to you in the mail.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. But
you
have to take that first step.”

“I can’t.”

“You want
Joanne? Then you got to make her
want
you back.”

He looks up at
me, something sinister instead. “Yeah, I’ll make her
want
me.”

“That’s not what
I meant.”

“She’ll want
me.”

“Ritchie, I
swear to God you are going down a path I can’t follow.”

“God? You swear
to God? What the fuck do you know about God?” Ritchie asks. “You met Him?” His
eyes penetrate my soul. “No? Then shut the
fuck
up.” He paces, his eyes
red, but he stops suddenly, closing one eye while thumping his temple with the
palm of his hand. “God talks to me,” he says finally. “Tells me what’s what.”

My heart is
racing in my chest. “He talks to you?”

“He talks to
me.”

“How are the
headaches?”

“She was
supposed to be my girl,” Ritchie grumbles, ignoring me. “What’s she doing with
that guy? No one even knows who he is.”

“It doesn’t
matter who he is.”

“But she’s
supposed to be mine…”

“She likes him
more than you,” I say. “That’s all that matters. Bottom line. End of story.”

He starts pacing
the way he sometimes does. “I can’t…”

“Breathe, Rich.”

He looks really,
really angry. “What if Kristie did it to you? What if she just up and left you
for another guy? Would you be like, ‘oh, well. Maybe next time?’”

I shake my head.
“No.”

“And now yer
just gonna leave her behind?”

“I’m not leaving
her behind. I’m not leaving anyone behind.”

“Everything’s
fallin’ apart.”

“Quit whining,
and get your goddamn game face on, will ya?”

Ritchie clams up,
his eyes narrowing.

“Sorry,” I
murmur. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He just glares.

“Trust me,” I
continue. “You’ll be glad to be rid of me and my dirty mouth.”

“God loves you,”
he mutters, ignoring my attempt at humor. “Whether you love Him or not.”

“I have no
qualms with God.”

Ritchie is about
to say something when he suddenly cringes, his face scrunching into a painful
grimace. Something else takes over—something ugly and dark. He bows his head, cocking
it to the side, wincing and closing one eye tightly while grinding his teeth. His
fingers curl into balled fists at his sides, and he trembles for a few seconds
before relaxing. Slightly. When he looks up again, some of the anger has
returned. “All I ask is you don’t disrespect Him.”

“You really need
to get those headaches checked out. It could be serious.”

“Don’t change
the subject.”

“I’m not
changing the subject. But I
am
concerned.”

“It goes away.”

“That doesn’t
mean it’s gone. You should see a doctor.”

“My parents
won’t pay for no doctor visits to treat a stupid headache. Besides, you already
said you don’t give a shit, so why should I?”

“You’re right.
That’s exactly what I said.”

“Whatever.”

“Do what you
want, Rich. I’ll visit you at the loony asylum.” I’ve had enough arguing with
him, so I walk away while knowing full well the conversation isn’t over.
Arguing with Ritchie is like arguing with a fart. It’s going to happen, and it
smells like shit, and sure enough, after a few moments, I hear his shoes
shuffling across the pavement as he scrambles after me.

“Just have some
reversion,” he says glumly.

“Reverence,” I
say softly. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Would you just
hold up?”

“I’m not holding
up.”

“But Joanne’s
gonna—”

“Fuck Joanne!” I
shout, whirling. “I’m sick of hearing about her! This conversation is over! It
is what it is. She’s
not
your girlfriend. She doesn’t want you. She
doesn’t
like
you. Get
over
it!”

Ritchie stands
there like the big oaf that he is, hands at his sides, feet spread duck-like,
sweat raining down his face. He looks like a child. A scared child.

“I need to go,”
I murmur, turning away.

“Everything’s
ruined,” I hear him murmur.

I stop and put
my hands on hips. For a long moment, I just stand there, my back to him before
I finally turn around. I’ve put a good twenty yards between us. “Ritchie,” I
say softly. “It’ll all work out. Trust me. Have some faith.”

He’s got
something of a superfluous frown on his face. “Have faith?” He waves his arms
before letting them slap his sides. “Faith in what? We’re graduating tomorrow,
and then yer leavin.’” He waves me off, his shoulders sagging as he turns away.
“It’s over.” He shakes his head. “It’s over.”

“Where are you
going?” I call.

“Piss off. I
need to get ready for the game.”

I curse under my
breath. I even use one of Ritchie’s bad words while knowing full well I can’t
leave things like this. Groaning, I catch up. To the casual observer watching
from their rear-view window, we must look like a pair of idiots, chasing one
another up and down the road. I even feel like an idiot.

“You okay?” I
ask.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“If I ain’t, you
plannin’ on fuckin’ my ass to make it all better?”

I snort. “Not a
chance.”

“Then it don’t
matter, does it?”

“It matters.” I
pause. “You matter.”

“What’s that?
Some kind of quote of the week?”

“It matters,
Rich.”

He settles back,
his eyes locked me. “You for real?”

“You’ve known me
for ten years. What do you think?”

He stares at me,
then just like that, a smile starts to win the edges of his mouth. He doesn’t
want to smile, but he can’t hide it. He’s a big lug who just wants things to
stay like they are. “Stop bein’ my girlfriend,” he says.

“It’s game day,”
I say enthusiastically, slugging him playfully in the arm.

Ritchie looks at
me with those big eyes and flushed cheeks. “Why’d you do it?” he asks, his tone
soft.

“Do what?”

“Dance with
Joanne.”

I draw a breath
and exhale. “Are you really still bent about that?”

Silence.

“Look,” I say.
“You have to believe me when I say that it meant nothing. It was a dance. It
was
not
a romantic dance. She’s my friend, and she was upset. I was just
trying to be there for her. Nothing more. I swear it. On blood.”

“Blood?”

“Blood.”

He keeps
walking. “You’re my best friend,” he says, clearly trying to find words to
articulate what he’s thinking. “But you hurt me pretty bad.”

“You’re acting
like I betrayed you,” I say. “I didn’t. I promise. I’m in love with Kristie,
and believe me, there’s a
big
difference between being friends with
Joanne and what Kristie and I have.”

He seems to
think for a minute. “I can’t do it without you.”

“Do what?”

“You know.”

“Actually, I’m
drawing a blank.”

“Forty-four.”

“What about it?”

“Fourth row,
fourth seat.”

Fourth row,
fourth seat. My place in Ritchie’s little world. I’ve been sitting in lucky #44
for the last four years. It’s the same worn spot on the same old bleachers. From
his tunnel-vision perspective, Ritchie is days away from completing his
masterpiece. Tonight’s the last regular season game. Then there’s the playoffs.
And after that? After that there’s nothing. It’s win it all or lose everything.
If he wins, he gets a front page article, a signed game jersey on the wall of
the local sports bar and maybe a deal down at the used car lot if he’s willing
to hang around and sign a few autographs.

If he loses, he
loses everything. Everyone forgets. And then he slips into obscurity. The
Pirates are one loss away from ending Ritchie’s career. They’re one loss away
from ending his legacy. Everything he is hinges on these last few days as the Ritchie-Hudson-sandglass
drains away while leading up to nothing.

“I don’t need
Joanne,” Ritchie mumbles.

“You’re godda—”
I cut myself off mid-word. “You’re
darn
right you don’t need her. Her or
anyone else. You’re a one-man rockin’ machine.” 

“I ain’t,”
Ritchie says, shivering. He’s actually shaking, and it’s not because he’s cold.
“It takes two.”

“Nothing you do
out there has anything to do with me. You’re the one out there on an island
throwing mad heat. I’m just a guy in the bleachers.”

He nods, but
he’s not looking at me. He’s staring off into the distance, hands on hips, the
edges of his mouth curved downward. “We do this together,” he says finally.
“One last time.”

I hold out my
hand. “One last time.”

He locks grip,
and it’s my big lug of a friend who thinks in whole numbers and comes up with remainders
who looks back.

“Let’s go,” I
say. There’s a moment of repose before Ritchie rotates a finger in three
concentric circles over his head before pointing in the general direction of
the stadium. Now that we seem to have finally settled on a destination, we
begin walking again, this time without changing direction or chasing the other
down. We’re side-by-side—best buds—and for the moment, the storm has subsided.
It’s a hot afternoon. Summer is coming early this year.

“You’re in my seat,” I say to the
man sitting on 44. He’s a big guy—older than me, and he might have lost his
hair, but he’s well-proportioned and outweighs me two to one. And there’s not a
lot of fat making up the difference.

“Excuse me?” he
says, his wife looking at me with the same shocked expression.

“Fourth row,
fourth seat,” I answer. “It’s reserved.” Then I smile. “For me.”

“Hon,” Kristie
says softly from behind me, but I shake her off.

“Your seat?” the
big guy says with an arrogant smile. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“Then lift your
hairy ass and take a closer look, because it’s there.”

He frowns,
stands and turns around.

“Triple A,” I
say, filling in the blanks. “Stands for Anthony Alexander Abbott. That’s me. You’re
in my seat.”

The big guy
isn’t intimidated. “Then maybe you should have gotten here sooner. It’s my seat
now.”

Normally, I’m a
patient guy. Normally, I’d be just as content to let him and his flock stay
put, but it’s been a weird day, and I’m in a weird mood. I’ve lost any patience
I had, and given the state of things between me and Ritchie, me and Joanne,
Joanne and Ritchie, me and Kristie, and pretty much everyone else in this rinky
dink town for that matter, I’m either in the mood to pick a fight or I’m in the
mood to lose one.

“You don’t want
to do this,” I say, baiting the hook.

“Do what?”

I smile. “Last
chance.”

We lock eyes,
and in those angry browns, I can still see a hint of hesitation. He knows he
outweighs me, but that’s why there’s doubt. He’s got to be wondering why I’m so
confident if I can’t beat him in a fight. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.

I smile. “No.”
Then I whistle sharp and shrill, and a few faces poke out from the dugout
below. Within moments, the entire team emerges. Ritchie leads the way, his eyes
fixed on the hairy goon who took my seat. “But
they
might,” I finish
with a grin.

The big man
takes a cautious step back, tripping against the bleacher seat.

“What’s goin’
on, Triple A?” Ritchie asks, reaching my side.

“It seems
someone sold my seat.”

Ritchie looks at
the big man, then the man’s wife, then the man’s daughter. “You guys can’t
scooch down far enough to make room for my two best friends?”

The man looks at
the bleacher row. “It’s pretty full.”

Ritchie sizes
the situation, then nods, his face contorted in thought. “You’re right. I guess
that means you and your brood will have to move.”

“Excuse me?” the
man asks.

“We’re moving,”
the man’s wife says, motioning for her daughter to get up and head for the
exit. Suddenly I feel bad. The girl looks to be about eight years old. She came
to watch a baseball game, not see her parents get bullied. This will be one of
the moments she’ll remember for the rest of her life. She won’t remember who
wins the game or what I look like, but she’ll remember me, she’ll remember this,
and she’ll remember that her dad isn’t invincible the way she thought. But it’s
too late to take it back. They’re already wading through a sea of knees to get
to the stairs on the other side. I look down at #44, and I realize in a moment
of absolute clarity how much I hate it and what it represents. Or maybe I hate
myself and what I’ve become.

The moment will
pass. It always does. Kristie and I will sit down, and the game will start, and
we’ll get caught up in the drama, and we’ll be treated like royalty. Popcorn
will be on the house, and everyone will ask me about Ritchie—how he’s feeling,
how his shoulder is, how he does what he does. Then the game will start, and
the attention will turn to the big man on the mound.

The team returns
to the dugout while Kristie and I take our seats. On impulse, she leans over
and kisses me on the cheek. “I love you.”

We rise for the
National Anthem. Every baseball cap around the park comes off. Every voice goes
silent. A little girl, announced as Rhiannon Greene from Miss Garcia’s fourth
grade class is standing on home plate, holding a microphone disproportionally
large, her voice disproportionally modulated as she belts out a painful
rendition of our nation’s anthem. As bad as it is, once she hits the high
notes, the crowd starts cheering anyway, and they keep right on cheering until
the anthem ends and the little girl takes a bow. Then they quiet down. There
are a few flashes, a few murmurs, but mostly silence. We sit, waiting, looking
around as though we’re waiting for Jesus Christ himself to suddenly appear.

“And now,” the
PA announcer calls out, his voice rocketing through the park, “the electrical
union #491 and the city council of Payton County are pleased to bring you the
starting lineup of
your
Payton Pirates!”

The local
faithful clap, but it’s more of a polite applause. It’s not the response I’m
sure the PA guy was expecting. We’re sitting, waiting, engaged in conversation,
spilling drinks, looking for cameras. We’re holding back—waiting.

For him.

The PA guy calls
out the scorecard, name, number, position, and the player being announced walks
out from the dugout, tips his hat and waves to the crowd. There a few claps, a
few whistles, a few laughs. We’re holding back—waiting.

For him.

Then the music
kicks in.

It’s a low
rumble at first, kind of a preamble just so everyone knows that the time has
finally come. Butts come off the bleachers, and everyone stands. Then the
lights start spinning, followed by the ear-piercing opening chords to
Welcome
to the Jungle
. It’s loud, it’s in your face, and I swear the bleachers are
rocking. All the lights, the blistering noise, the music, the fans. I don’t
know much about what happens outside of Payton, but what happens on this field
is something special, and it all has to do with the big guy who’s just now
emerging from the dugout and beginning the slow walk toward the mound, his head
bowed, his ball cap hiding his eyes. The place goes ballistic, a slew of
fireworks lighting the evening sky.

“Starting at
pitcher,” the PA blares, his voice drowning beneath the cheers. “Number 44…”
The crowd has become so loud that I have to cover my ears. “Your very
own…Ritchieeeeeeeee Hudsoooooooooooooooooon!”

I look over at
the visiting dugout, and in a way, I sort of feel bad for them. After all it’s
a bit unfair. Playtime is over. Ritchie’s on the mound.

This is Pirate
country.

Welcome to the
jungle, bitches.