The Interview (10 page)

“I can't. I'm working. I have an OTDT that requires me to be
out of here in thirty minutes.”

“That doesn't concern me.”

“Doesn't concern me all that much either, but it gives me a
good excuse.”

“In the office. Now.”

I looked at her and smiled the most irritating smile I could come up
with. Judging by the way her eyes caught fire, I nailed it. “Jimmy's
off today. No union rep. No office. Those are the rules. Anything
else?”

She flared her nostrils, then walked away.

Thelma popped out and said, “She's their spy.”

“And there's a probe stuck up her ass.”

THREE HOURS LATER I SAT on the back bumper of my truck, smoked a
cigarette, and watched two potheads try and take their Christmas
lights down.

It was the middle of July, over a hundred degrees out, and for the
life of me, I could not imagine what their motivation was. The lights
had been up this long, why now?

Mr. Allen came out of his garage.

“Kelly,” he greeted me.

“Mr. Allen.” I handed him a cigarette and my lighter. He
lit up, thanked me, and handed the lighter back. We stared at the two
geniuses as they tried to decide how to get the lights down.

“Why today?” he asked.

“I know, right? I was just thinking that. We're on the
downhill slide to Christmas. Why not just leave 'em up?”

“They're probably decorating the garage. Kid plays drums till
three in morning.” Mr. Allen is pretty hip for a retired
Boeing engineer. He's in his seventies, but looks really good. Better
than I do on some days. He comes out a couple times a week and smokes
a cigarette with me. Never says much, just smokes. His wife gives me
a fifty-dollar Target card every Christmas. She promised she'd make
it a hundred if I stopped giving her husband smokes. I don't really
shop at Target.

“Yeah, I've never seen his parents.”

“He's never around. Got a girlfriend out in Palm Springs. Comes
home every couple weeks to make sure the kid hasn't died on the lawn,
then goes back.”

“Huh.”

“It's a shame. The kid's got some talent. He wastes most of it
on the front porch, smoking bud.”

“Dude,” the kid on the roof called down to his buddy.
“How am I going to get down?”

“Should I call the ambulance now?” he asked.

“I don't have a cell phone so it's going to be you.”

“Liar. Everyone has a cell phone.”

“What happened to the ladder?” The kid on the ground
spun around in circles. I could see no ladder. The kid fell down
laughing. “We lost the ladder!”

“That's not cool, man. How am I going to get down?”

“Genius climbed out the window behind him five minutes ago.
There is no ladder,” said Mr. Allen.

“Do you think I can jump?”

Oh, this should be good. It was a good ten feet down.

“Oh, yeah. You could totally make it.”

“He's going to break his neck,” I said.

“No. Look, he's going to build his courage up first.” We
watched as he popped a joint in his mouth and fired it up. “You
really don't have a cell?”

“Nope. No wife. No kids. I don't have anybody I want to talk to
that badly. People know how to find me.”

“I remember when I used to go for walks and no one bothered me.
Now, I go for a walk and my wife calls me every five minutes to make
sure I didn't get lost. We were on our way up to the Hollywood Bowl
last week. We're already halfway there, right. My wife starts doing
this little dance in her seat, like she's got ants in her pants or
something. Her face is all panicky, so I ask her if she's all right.
She turns to me with a look of pure terror and says, 'I forgot my
phone.' Seventy-year-old woman acting like that over a phone.
Ridiculous.”

“I hear you.”

“So I tell her she'll be fine. To relax. But no, she starts
panicking. What if one of the grandkids falls into the toilet or gets
kidnapped or spits up. I said, 'Get a grip woman.' Ended that right
there.”

“So you turned around and came home.”

“Amen to that, Kelly.” He held his fist. We
knuckle-bumped. He's a hip guy. “She got her phone. We skipped
the bowl and went to the concert in the park over at Tri-Cities
instead. It was good. Not the Bowl, understand, but it turned out
nice.”

Amen to that.

The kid on the ground spotted the joint on the roof. He stopped
laughing. “Hey, man! That's not cool, Brad!”

Brad laughed, waved, and took a monster hit. The kid on the ground
ran into the house and a few moments later climbed out the window to
get his share.

“Dude, I can see for miles up here.”

“I know, but how are we going to get down?”

“Dude, where'd the ladder go?”

Mr. Allen finished his smoke. He pitched it in the gutter. “Screw
it, let them fall. I'll catch you later, Kelly.”

“Later, Mr. Allen.”

THE ROMANOVICHES LIVE A FEW houses down from Mr. Allen. I thought
about knocking on the door, but decided that I didn't really want to
know too much about the problem. Their problem wasn't my concern.
Tristan, a bunch of money, and Mr. Bat were my concerns. I dropped
their mail, then kept on walking.

I ran home for lunch. Annette was gone, but the money was still
there. I didn't want to have to tell Mr. Bat that I had lost his
money. I made sure the house was locked, then headed over to my next
stop.

The Athens Gang was having a meeting of the minds. There are four
gangs in Placentia. Atwood, La Jolla, and Plas were the three
Hispanic gangs that worked out of the Southern half of town. I'm on
the northern end of town, and that was Athens territory.

They stared me down and I stared right back. Show no fear! That's
the secret with the hoodlums. I did the even side of the street, then
started down the odd. They watched me the whole time. Punks! I
reached the Williams' house, dropped the mail in the box, and turned
to face them. There were seven of them standing beneath a big tree
with lots of branches. I know trees like I know guns.

One of them nodded to me. I nodded back. He stepped out from the tree
and blocked my path.

“What up?” he asked me.

“Nada. What up wit’ you?”

“Cat got out. Ran up the tree.”

“Haven't told your mom yet.”

“Nah. She freaks when he gets out.”

“I'll check it out.”

“Cool.” We did a complicated handshake that would have
left Stephanie Plum bewildered.

Three girls and four boys surrounded me at the base of the tree. They
ranged in age from ten to five. I was an honorary member of the gang
on the basis that I was the only adult they knew that could do the
handshake. It's the little things with kids. I am always wary of them
though. They reminded me of the pack of killer whales. If they ever
decided it would be fun to torture me they wouldn't hesitate.

“What's up little dudes?” You have to speak their
language. It's key to keeping the peace. I know other carriers that
have cute little kids just like these on their routes. They've been
pelted with rocks, snow cones, and in one case, have had dogs
deliberately set upon them by the little bundles of joy.

“Hi, Mail Dude,” they all replied as one.

“We called the fire department, but they said no.”

“Doesn't surprise me. They're lazy. I got this.”

Sure, because I climb trees all the time. That's why I had this.

The lowest branch was even with my face. I wrapped some rubber bands
around my mail then set it off to the side. I boosted myself up onto
the branch. Piece of cake. The cat stared at me from a very thin
branch about six feet above me. I never know what to expect from
cats. I dig their independent nature. I've never been bitten by a
cat, so that was a plus. If it was a German Shepherd up there, the
kids could forget it. Those have bitten me, and for no reason I could
discern except my legs had meat on them.

I grabbed a branch above my head to steady myself and looked down.
Huh. Kind of high. “What's the cat's name?”

“Catty.”

“Really? Catty?”

“Yeah. Daelyn named him. She names everything like that.
Bearie, Doggie, you know, Catty.”

“OK.” I looked up at Catty. “Come here, Catty.”

“That won't work. He doesn't listen,” Katelyn said. She
was a cute little blonde thing. California Girl in training based on
her shorts and bikini top.

“Right.”

I climbed up a few more feet. Looked down. Kind of higher. My butt
started to pucker involuntarily. Never a good sign. Why was I up
here?

“Come on, Catty. Help me out.”

Catty meowed then started to purr. He rubbed his head against a
branch then looked at me. I knew what the look said. It said, “Come
on, idiot.”

I slid my boots along the branch so I could get to the next step. I
missed my next handhold and momentarily lost my balance. My sphincter
went into full blown contractions. The kids took a collective gasp. I
grabbed a branch and let out a long slow breath. The kids let out a
collective sigh of disappointment.

“Come here, you little fucker,” I whispered through
clenched teeth.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Almost got him.”

I was high enough now to grab him and to break my neck if I fell
depending on how my next movement went. I went in slow so I didn't
startle him. Catty hissed and scratched my hand. I was officially not
a cat person now. I readjusted my grip, then went in fast. I got him
right behind his head. He was still a kitten, but he wouldn't let go
of the damn branch. A struggle ensued. I eventually won by knocking
his head against the branch a couple times to daze him. He went limp
in my hand once I got his claws removed from the wood.

“Got him.”

“Nice job.” My butt wasn't convinced as of yet.

“Coming down.”

“Careful.” I ignored the snickering that followed. I
would be careful. And when I got out of this tree I would find the
nearest phone and call the fire department and tell them what a bunch
of pussies they were.

I got down to the last branch only to discover that there was no way
I could get out of the tree while I held the cat. I didn't want to
drop him. If the kids didn't catch him he'd just run back up the
tree. And I was not doing this again.

I finally decided on a complicated maneuver that involved me bracing
myself against the tree then slowly sliding down until I was sitting
on the branch. I'd figure out my next move after that. Success! OK,
from here I could jump down. It was only five feet to the ground. No
worries.

Catty suddenly went into contortions, threw my balance off, and I was
on the ground just like that.

“Oh, that was sweet!”

I wanted to reply but I couldn't breathe. I landed flat on my back
and the wind was knocked out of me. I lay there and tried not to
throw up. Somebody took the cat from me. That was a start. Then
somebody kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Mr. Mail
Dude.”

Kids are so sweet. Kind of like Annette.

I NEVER PLAYED LITTLE LEAGUE baseball when I was a kid. Getting hit
in the head with a bat kind of put me off the game for the remainder
of my childhood. I played soccer when I was in elementary school,
then football in high school. Wide receiver was my position because I
was fast. I didn't really run routes. My coach just told me to run as
fast as I could and the quarterback would throw it as far as he
could. We won some games. We lost some. An athletic scholarship was
never in my future, and after I graduated I left organized sports
behind until I met Frankie.

She attended U.C. Berkeley on an athletic scholarship, but she would
have had a full ride even if she hadn't played softball. She was
scary smart. But, play she did. I wish I had known her during those
four years, because it must have been magical.

Six months into our relationship she talked me into playing coed. I
was a mess in the field. I misjudged routine pop-ups in the outfield.
Grounders invariably hit me everywhere but my glove. But I could hit
that high-arching slow pitch, and I could run really fast.

When she left after three years, I kept playing. A lot. Back then I
played six days a week. I've scaled back to three nights a week
because my body just doesn't recover the way it used to. There are
times when my arm feels like a spaghetti noodle and my knees are
filled with ground glass. My defensive skills have come around and
I'm a pretty good pitcher. Most importantly though, I can still hit
the ball and run really fast.

I got to Shaffer Park in Orange a little after six. The park is only
ten minutes from Annette's house as compared to Monday when I drive
an hour to Huntington Beach. I play on a Men's team on Wednesdays and
I'm not the manager, which is nice. Being in charge is a pain in the
ass. Players don't show. Players don't pay. Players suck. Players
bitch.

The cash was locked up tight in the Ranger, covered with a blanket on
my front seat. I parked the truck right next to the 3rd base dugout
so I could see it at all times. Other guys straggled in and
eventually there was ten of us and the ump said, “Play ball!”

For the next forty-five minutes I forgot about everything in my life.
I pitched a shutout through four innings. My defense is solid and I
can hit corners when I want to. I hit the ball and ran really fast.
My friend, Fred, says I remind him of a motorcycle cornering when I
run. Fred reminds me of an uncoordinated horse who is missing a shoe.
Speedy, he's not, but he gobbles up anything close to him at 1st
base.

Life is as good as it gets during those games. Win or lose, I am
right where I should be. I know what is expected of me and I don't
have to fake anything. I smile. I yell. I cheer. I'm Mr. Positive in
cleats. And then the game ends. I high-five my teammates. Sometimes
we go out for pizza and beer and sometimes we don't. I get in my
truck, drive home, and count the minutes until I can step on the
field again.