Twice Retired

TWICE RETIRED

Steven Michael Maddis

Copyright Steven Michael Maddis: 2012

Published by Smashwords

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October, 1999- Sometime after the World
Series

“I’m telling you, one of these times
one of us is gonna get
killed.
If not when we get there, then on the way.”

The chunky blackhaired kid outweighed
the other two by about fifty pounds, an inordinate imbalance in
children their age. His friends darted over the boulders and
through the thick bush like well-trained soldiers and always a few
steps behind, the chubby one protested. His name was Philip
Dregger, but nobody ever called him that, with the exception of his
teachers and his aunt. The other kids always called him by a
nickname, a degrading moniker Philip’s own mother had overheard one
afternoon and rightfully adopted. He couldn’t see his friends. He
could only hear their hiking boots tromping across the fallen
leaves. The cracking of the dried twigs on the forest floor would
seem distant and then suddenly closer again. Still, they always had
a good lead on him. “You, know, some guy probably lives there. He’s
going to show up some day when we’re flipping burgers on his grill.
He’s going to kill us.”

“Give it a rest, Plug.” One of the
other kids shouted back through the trees. The thick foliage
muffled the arguments of the kid that had fallen behind, but they
knew he was there. Behind was where he always seemed to be. He was
too afraid to turn back, and too afraid to stop and wait them out.
He’d follow them into a furnace if that’s where they were headed.
Kenny Gilbride knew it, and even though it frustrated him, he
always led the pace and kept it slower when Philip Dregger was
trudging along behind them. It frustrated his other friend, too,
but friendship with Kenny was a right-of-honor in the small town,
and nothing would jeopardize that.

“Yeah, Plug, let’s pick it up.” Jacob
Camden called back.

Kenny and Jacob took a seat on a soggy
fallen log and caught up with their breath. Finally, Philip
appeared from behind a blue spruce and collapsed on a moss-covered
boulder. Suddenly, he leaned forward, clutched his stomach and
started putting on a show. “They got me. You guys go ahead. Leave
me here. I’ll only slow you down. Just tell Brianne that I love
her. Ackkk…..”

The other kids laughed. Philip somehow
never got upset when they poked fun at him. He seemed to thrive on
it and often continued the verbal thrashings all by himself. Kenny
stood from the log and ran at Philip like a defensive lineman. He
grabbed him around his ample gut and and tackled him off the
boulder. Their clothes got filthy, but it was their “cabin clothes”
so they didn’t sweat it. They laughed and scuffled around on the
autumn colored floor of the forest for a full minute before Jacob
stepped in. “Come on guys… let’s keep going.”

Kenny and Philip helped each other to
their feet, and headed onward through the bush, even running ahead
of Jacob Camden. Jake knew that Philip needed these moments of
one-upmanship, and hung back. He finally caught up with the other
two when they were good and ready to be caught. Then they continued
as equals until they reached their destination fifteen minutes
later.

Nothing appeared changed. The aged log
cabin still looked like it might collapse on itself if an acorn
fell on the roof. The years had done their damage. The cold teeth
of harsh Ohio winters had chewed the logs and softened the tar and
mortar that was jammed between them. The cheap sheets of acrylic
still stood in place of the windows that had long been shattered by
the elements and the front door, which barely hung on rusted
hinges, still stood solid against its frame, buttressed by the
firewood the kids had piled against it the Sunday before.
Performing their perfunctory search of the premises and checking
their crude booby traps to see if anybody had been snooping around
their claim, they found not so much as a footprint in the muddy
moat around the perimeter of the cabin.

“All clear.” Jacob winked. He quickly
flung the firewood from the stoop to the side of the crumbling
concrete pad and pulled the door open. A cloud of musty stale air
whooshed over him, but the smell, rancid to most, was comforting to
him. Each of the three kids wished they could call this cabin home,
sometimes. It was a sanctuary, void of all the hassles that
surrounded them in the real homes. No homework. No little brothers
and older sisters. No parents. That was all gone when they were in
their secret place away from the bustle of the real
world.

In single-file, the kids stormed into
the dank cabin. Philip collapsed on the well-worn red
patent-leather sofa. Its foam stuffing was bursting out of a dozen
cuts and tears, but Philip didn’t care. The couch was a ghastly
sight as far as aesthetics went, but Philip loved it. Probably
because neither of the other two kids would fight him for
it.

Jacob quickly claimed his favorite
seat, a weaved, half-sphere basket chair covered by a thick cushion
with a horrid floral pattern. He loved the chair. He was a small
kid, and while the chair was originally designed to be used with an
ugly matching ottoman, Jake almost fit in the chair wholly if he
curled himself up a little. He sat in the chair and started humming
a tune.

Kenny Gilbride couldn’t sit. He was too
excited. He stood on a stool and felt around the top of the crude
wooden kitchen cabinets until he found what he was searching
for.

“A-ha!” He exclaimed.

He jumped off the stool with the
crumpled pack of cigarettes. Opening it up, he found only five
left. He handed one to each of the other two kids and tossed the
remaining two back in the cupboard. He lit them all up with a Zippo
from his jacket pocket.

“Ya know,” said Philip, “my mom and dad
both swear they can smell it on me when I go home. Somehow I always
convince them it’s their imagination.”

“Imagination?” Jake laughed. “Your mom
smokes enough to keep the cigarette guys in business all by
herself. At my house, nobody smokes, so I gotta blame it on you
guys.”

“I think mom knows I smoke,” Kenny said
softly, “but I don’t think she cares too much. I guess if that’s
the worst I do…”

“Did you guys see how Brianne looked at
me in Geography yesterday?” Philip said excitedly. “Man, when Mrs.
Smith put us together on that project, she looked like she was
gonna…”

“Cry!” Jacob interceded,
laughing.

“Screw you, man. She likes me, but
she’s just shy, that’s all.”

“I think Kathy is more your type,
there, stud.” Jake giggled.

“Kathy Morehouse? Come on, she’s a
hog.”

“Takes one…” Jacob started.

“Lay off!” Kenny said sternly. Jake cut
himself off quickly. “And I don’t think Kathy’s all that bad, Plug.
I think she’d treat you nice. Seems like she’s the only one who
doesn’t make fun of you. When you guys sit out some of the games in
gym, she sits beside you doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, but she’s fat.”

“So? That doesn’t mean anything.” Kenny
said. “What do you want with a girl like Brianne? All she does is
mock you. What good is that? So what if she’s good looking and
she’s got nice guns? She’d treat you bad.”

Philip smiled, envisioning his face
buried in Brianne’s ample cleavage, far ahead in their form of any
of the other girls in their grade. Then he imagined the catcalls
that she always seemed to lead in gym class. He’d always kind of
like Kathy, but society’s standards condemned her as they did him.
He couldn’t imagine getting the same ridicule that Kenny and Jake
got from hanging around with him, on top of the ridicule directed
at himself. He stared cross-eyed at the red-hot tip of his
cigarette and took a deep drag. “I don’t know.”

“You care too much about what other
people are going to think, Plug. Screw everybody else, man. If you
think Kathy’s the one, go for her man.” Kenny said.

“Yeah, who’s going to fight you?” Jake
said. Kenny shot him another glare and Jake receded. “If you want
to hook up with her for the dance, you’d better do it
soon.”

“You know, I can’t believe the Indians
lost again.” Kenny said. “Every frigging year they hammer
everybody, then get smoked in October.”

“Hey, man, don’t forget about 95 and
97. One home-run and one error, man, that’s all that kept them from
getting it all.” Jake said, proudly bending the peak of his
Cleveland Indian’s cap. The hat had been on his head almost every
day since his dad had bought it for him in the Indian’s old
stadium. It was the only game he’d seen live, and although the
Indians took a beating, they were still some of the best memories
of his life.

“So if Justice doesn’t get his homer,
we still gotta get a run, man. We didn’t. And you can’t blame ’97
all on Fernandez. If it wasn’t for him, they weren’t even in the
World Series. That was only one out. It was all Jose’s
fault.”

“Guys, it was nobody’s fault. It’s
baseball. Somebody’s always got to lose. Cleveland’s just wrote the
book on the best ways to do it.”

“Frigging Pedro.” Kenny muttered.
“Wasn’t even supposed to pitch.”

Silence was followed by Jake. “Hey, you
here about them naming a street after Thome?”

“Heh. Jim Thome.” Kenny snickered.
“Always looks good in the homerun derby, but he’s nothing special.
Now Lofton, I can see.”

“No way, man.” Phillip said. “None of
those guys should have a street named after them. They’re all good
but not
that
good. Nobody
should have a friggin’ street named after them. Not until they’ve
blown up a record or retired or something.”

“Thome’s awesome.” Jake said. “I like
it.”

Phillip fiddled with his cigarette.
While he’d never admit it, he always felt nauseous about halfway
through a stick, and the level of sickness mirrored the potency of
the brand name. These ones were horrible. Jake and Kenny both
noticed the sheet-pale visage that replaced Phillip’s usually rosy
complexion whenever they offered him a smoke, and neither of them
ever said anything. But today, whether it was because of the smoke
or the flu or some unseen virus which had targeted the weakest prey
in the room, Phillip looked as though he was about to hurl up his
breakfast before they broke into their lunch.

“Plug, man. You okay?” Kenny asked as
he walked towards Phillip’s ghastly sofa. The sickened kid held up
his hand to wave off any concern. He seemed settled for a moment,
then he jumped off the couch and burst out of the cabin like he and
it were both engulfed in flame.

Blistering across the clearing as far
away from embarrassment as possible, Philip finally collapsed on
his knees beside the stone lined fireplace pit. He emptied himself
out rightfully and as soon as he recovered, he grabbed some finely
chopped kindling from underneath a blue tarp and stood it up in a
tee-pee under the charred metal grill. Humiliated, he meandered
back into the cabin.

Kenny and Jake were both smiling, but
weren’t about to say anything. Philip spoke. “Is all that newspaper
still around?”

“Yeah, it’s under the cupboards.” Kenny
said with a sly grim. “Why, you going to the outhouse?”

“No, butthead, I’m going to light a
fire.”

“Don’t do that, man.” Jake sputtered.
“You’ll set half of Ohio on fire.”

“Only the bad half. The part with the
Reds fans.” Philip said jokingly as he reached under the cupboards.
He yanked out some papers and was on his way out the door whistling
when he stopped.

“When did Cleveland play that series
against Toronto? The last one.”

“Right at the end of the season. First
week of October. Why?” Kenny asked.