Not Much for Baseball

by Shane Camoin

Cole grabbed a glass from the cupboard above the sink and rinsed it in hot water. He flicked a few dead bugs off the counter before setting the glass on the sticky Formica next to his mom’s pill bottles. He’d swiped a Colozepan but it just made him tired. The kitchen was filthy, everything was filthy; his mom rarely cleaned, and when she did, she didn’t do it very well. And he wasn’t any better, hadn’t lifted a finger in the month he’d been staying with her. All he did was sleep. The fridge was empty except for a bottle of Tabasco sauce, a topless tub of margarine, a gallon of tomato juice, and a half-gallon of carrot juice. He didn’t like carrot juice but liked tomato juice even less and didn’t trust the water in this place—it smelled funny and had a yellow tinge. After pouring a glass of carrot juice, he sat on the living room couch and watched scrambled porn.

The creak of his mom’s bedroom door startled him, and he quickly pulled up his pants and turned off the TV. His mom stumbled into the bathroom, and he sat in the dark and drank his juice. A couple minutes later, she stumbled out without flushing, turned on the kitchen light, and drank tomato juice straight from the container. When she saw him staring at her, she jumped back and juggled the juice all the way to the floor where she finally lost it.

“You scared the life out of me,” she said. She lifted the gushing jug and set it on the counter.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. The couch was wrapped in clear plastic and stuck to his naked back. He peeled himself off to help her clean, but she waved him away and laid a few sheets of newspaper over the spill.

“It’s nice to see you out of your room.” She dabbed at the wet newspaper with her toe before jumping over it and sitting beside him. “I have to be up in an hour,” she said. She scratched at her curlers. Her black hair was naturally straight like his, but she’d been curling it for as long as he could remember. Everyone said his mom was beautiful and exotic, including his dad and Brenda, and that Cole was her spitting image. As a child, she liked to tell him he was the descendent of Persian kings. She’d been an unsuccessful model and actress—landed a couple of commercials in the 70s and even had a small speaking role on The Rockford Files when she was pregnant with him. “You were on TV,” she’d say, and pinch his cheek. She still looked pretty much as he remembered except for the faintest of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. And she’d started wearing green contacts, which he found unsettling. “You want to order a pizza?”

“At four in the morning?” he said.

“Why not?”

The carrot juice bubbled in his stomach, and he didn’t want to eat pizza but thought he should eat something. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. His mom grabbed a coupon book from a pile under the coffee table and flipped through it.

“There’s a two-for-one at Domino’s,” she said. A car alarm went off nearby.

“I’m not that hungry.”

The central air kicked on, felt good against the back of his head but never kept the place cool enough, especially at night when he was lying on the pullout couch in the den.

“I’ll eat your leftovers.” She grabbed the phone off the wall.

“I’m tossing out Phil’s stuff today,” he said. “I’m tired of looking at it.”

“Leave it alone.” She held the phone to her ear and walked back and forth, making little hops over the soggy newspaper. “He might come back for it.”

“Fuck him.”

“Hey.” She stopped and waved a finger at him. “None of that.”

“Sorry.” He lowered his head and dug his toes into the carpet.

“But you’re right.” She went back to pacing. “Wait until I’m at work. I don’t want anything to do with it. Hello? No, we have a two-for-one coupon. We want two mediums, one with onions and one with olives. Nope, that’s it. That’s all. Yes, I’ll hold.” She sighed and returned to the couch. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t think I could do this alone. I’d probably take him back.” She patted his thigh. He didn’t like being touched by her. It felt awkward and fake, like her new green eyes.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he said.

The month he’d been there was the most time they’d spent together since he was two. He’d rarely seen her as a kid, maybe two or three times a year—less after she moved to Vegas—and then she would ignore him for whatever new guy she was dating, or even worse, try to get them to bond. Brenda had been more of a mom to him.

“I’m still glad you’re here.” She squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

“Stay and eat pizza with me.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat more. When did you get so skinny? You weren’t like this the last time I saw you.” She scratched her armpit and sniffed her fingers.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re really not. Trust me, I’m your mother. You need to eat pizza with me.”

Cole shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Good. Take the phone.”

Mellow jazz flowed from the receiver.

“I guess a lot of people are eating pizza for breakfast,” he said.

“How about I take the day off work and we go to the zoo?”

“I don’t think I’m up for the zoo.”

“You’re never up for anything.” His mom noticed a tomato juice stain on her nightgown, licked her fingers, and rubbed the cream-colored fabric. “Are you still seeing that Oriental girl?”

“Not really.”

“That’s too bad. I liked her.”

“You only met her once.” A fly buzzed his left eye, and he swatted it with the receiver.

“She left a good impression.”

“So did Phil. We used to play video games.”

His mom shrugged. “I guess you can never really tell about people.”

They sat in awkward silence, listening to mellow jazz.

“How’s Brenda’s little girl?” his mom said. “The redhead with the big eyes?”

“Her name’s Rally.” He could feel his face starting to flush and turned away.

“I remember how mad she’d get when I took you for the weekend. One time, I think you were ten, she threw a giant temper tantrum, and I had to bring her along too. Are you still close?”

“I spent like two weekends at your place before you moved.”

“That’s not true.” She fiddled with one of her curlers. “I tried to see you as much as I could.”

“I can literally count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you in the last fifteen years.” He held out his left hand and wiggled his fingers.

She poked his palm. “Are we still on hold?”

“I hear the music.”

“I think they forgot about us.”

_

Cole didn’t care much for baseball, had played in little league when he was eleven but wasn’t any good, always in the outfield and last to bat. Phil was a fan, and the den was his shrine. The posters were the first to go; big men in tight pants weren’t Cole’s thing. Next, he tossed out all the issues of Sports Illustrated, the baseball caps (one for almost every team), two wooden bats and one aluminum with a dent in it, a glove and a catcher’s mitt, a full Cardinals uniform—even had the stirrup socks—a pair of bowling shoes, and a bowling ball in a leather bag. There were a couple of trophies on the shelf under the window, little bronze men frozen in mid-swing, and between them a glass case displaying a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle. He tossed out the trophies but kept the ball, thought it might be worth something, and stashed it behind the foldout couch with his fifteen hundred bucks.

The last thing to go was the baseball cards, stacks and stacks of baseball cards, enough to fill an entire closet. Some were probably worth something, but he wasn’t sure which ones or how much, wasn’t even sure about the baseball. He stuffed three trash bags with cards, then dragged the first out the front door and down the stairs. His mom lived on the second floor in one of two identical L-shaped buildings with a pool in the middle. A young woman lay on a deckchair by the pool. She wore black bikini bottoms and covered her bare breasts with her hands. Her chin-length hair was blue-black with bangs that curled against her large sunglasses. She hadn’t been there earlier. Maybe she’d been waiting for him to stop running back and forth so she could have some privacy. The trash bag tore on the hot concrete, spilling cards, and he ran back upstairs to grab another, quick so he could watch her a little more, but when he returned, she was gone. He pulled the new trash bag over the ruptured one and continued dragging it to the dumpster.

His mom hadn’t given him a key, so he used a loose brick to prop the gate open. The apartment complex shared an alley with another pair of L-shaped buildings and a small steakhouse that was also a casino. Sweat stung his eyes. He dropped the bag by the dumpster and mopped his face with his t-shirt. The alley smelled like roast beef.

“I don’t think it’s in here.” A man popped up from inside the dumpster, startling Cole. “I thought you were my wife,” he said. He wore the Cardinals uniform and had a lazy eye.

“Does she have black hair?”

“Not on her head.”

“Can you help me with this?” Cole lifted the garbage bag, using the wall of the dumpster for support.

“You’ve got to use your legs,” the man said. He wiped his forehead with his forearm and covered his thinning blonde hair with the Cardinals cap.

“I’m using my legs,” Cole said. “I’m using my whole body.” He managed to get the bag in the dumpster without any help. A little annoyed with the man, he walked away without saying goodbye.

The brick was gone, and the back gate was locked. He cursed the man in the dumpster, didn’t have any right to blame him but did anyway, shook the gate, and thought about climbing over, but there were curved spikes on top and no place to get a foothold. He was melting in the sun and thought about asking the man in the dumpster if he could open the gate but decided he’d rather melt.

“You okay?” It was the woman with the black bob. Her throaty voice reminded him of Kathleen Turner, and with his eyes closed, he imagined Jessica Rabbit. She was on the other side of the locked gate wearing a black sleeveless shirt with her bikini bottoms.

“I’m locked out,” he said. He held his hands at his sides, not knowing what else to do with them.

“I haven’t seen you before,” she said. She opened the gate and held it for him as he walked in. The gate was on a spring and snapped shut as she casually lifted her hand.

“I haven’t seen you either.” He hadn’t seen anybody, never left his mom’s apartment. His mom wanted to take him out to the Strip and show him the new casinos, the Luxor and Excalibur, but he wouldn’t have it. All the lights and noises and crowds made him sick. Theme parks were no good either. She liked to take him places he didn’t want to go.

“We only moved in a couple weeks ago, but I’ve seen almost everyone.” The woman chewed on her thumbnail. Her nails were bone white and matched the frames of her big sunglasses. “Have you eaten lunch?”

“Not yet,” he said. Food was the last thing on his mind.

She took her thumb out of her mouth and placed her hands on her hips. “I ask because I’m making fish for lunch, and my husband won’t touch it. He’s such a bastard.”

“Some people don’t like fish.” He was nauseous just thinking about the pizza he’d eaten that morning, and most of it was still in the fridge.

“He’s a bastard,” she insisted, and Cole didn’t want to argue. He was a bastard too.

“So, how about it?” she said.

_

Her apartment was on the second floor, across the pool from his mom’s. All the lights were off, but she kept her sunglasses on, and he wondered if she was older than she looked. Her couch was covered in plastic too.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she yelled from the kitchen, only a few feet from him. “Do you want a drink?” She had her back to him and stirred a pot on the stove with a big wooden spoon. He watched her tan butt wiggle as she stirred.

“Sure.” His throat was dry, and he had to say it twice before the word came out.

“What do you want? We got—"

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re a brave one.” She wiped her hands on her shirt and poured two tall glasses from a pitcher she had ready on the counter, looked like lemonade, even had lemon slices floating in it, and a mint leaf.

“This place is too small,” she said, handing him a glass. “Is yours any bigger, or are they all the same?”

“It’s the same.” He held his lemonade, unsure whether to sit or stand, felt awkward with her so close to him. Her place was clean, and she smelled like lemons, or maybe it was the lemonade.

“I don’t know any good toasts.” She clinked his glass and tossed back her lemonade in two gulps. He took a sip and gagged on the strong aftertaste of vodka. She gave a crooked smile, the kind that joins a wink, but he couldn’t see her eyes through the dark lenses. White smoke billowed out of the oven.

“It’s burning,” he said.

She sat on the couch and crossed her legs. “Can you turn it off? I just sat down. And can you get me another?” She held up her empty glass smudged with pink lipstick. The smoke alarm went off, screamed in his ears.

He set their glasses on the counter next to the pitcher, waved the smoke out of his face, and turned off the oven. The smoke stung his eyes and tugged at the little hairs in his nose. He stuck his fingers in his ears and looked around for the alarm, tried to think if he’d seen one in his mom’s place, but she never cooked, and neither did he. The woman uncrossed her legs, pushed herself off the couch, grabbed a pewter candlestick from the bookcase by the TV, and bashed the alarm. It was near the ceiling, and she had to jump to hit it. She whacked it several times before it stopped wailing.

“Do you think anyone heard that?” She held the candlestick with both hands like a baseball bat.

“Probably.” He poured her another glass of lemonade and noticed his hands were shaking.

She placed the candlestick back on the bookcase, made sure it was in the exact same position between a crawling fern and a silver-framed photo of a little girl with curly blonde hair, then took the glass and sipped it. She slid on an oven mitt that looked like an alligator puppet and opened the oven. Smoke blew in her face, but she didn’t flinch. She ducked down into it, pulled out the tray of blackened fish sticks, and dropped them on the burners next to the pot. She poked at a fish stick with a spatula.

“I think the ones in the middle are still good. I also got cheesy rice. You like cheesy rice?”

He coughed and waved the smoke away from his face. He sipped his drink and gagged; couldn’t taste the lemons, only vodka and burnt fish sticks. She opened the window next to the oven and fanned the smoke out with an issue of Self magazine. He stood next to her, stuck his head out the window, and saw the man with the lazy eye in the dumpster below them. The man looked up as if he knew he was being stared at, smiled, and waved. The smoke was making Cole nauseous, and he was either going to puke or pass out.

“I have to go,” he said.

“What?”

He darted out the door.

His fingers went numb as he ran back to his mom’s, a sure sign he was about to puke. Kneeling over the toilet in the dark, he heaved, but nothing came out. He tried a few more times before giving up. His throat burned. He needed something to drink besides vodka or carrot juice. Someone knocked at the door, and he wished he’d locked it. He wiped his mouth, tiptoed down the hall into the living room, and peered through the peephole. The woman was chewing on her thumbnail. She knocked again, and he locked the door. He returned to the den and fell asleep on the pullout couch without pulling it out, cuddling a trash bag of baseball cards.

_

His face was sore from the cards poking his cheek, and he was disappointed that he hadn’t had any dreams, not one since he got to Vegas, a whole month of dreamless sleep. Boring but peaceful, time had stopped, and he didn’t have to deal with anything, at least not until that morning. Between the plastic-covered couch and the front door, he sat on the bag of cards and debated if he really wanted to drag it down the stairs, across the hot concrete, out the back gate, and heave it into the dumpster. Maybe he could push it out the window instead, but it was the wrong side of the complex. The front door swung open, and his mom walked in. It was just after five-thirty.

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” she said. She dropped her purse and kicked off her heels. She wore a black dress covered in orange poppies.

“I just woke up,” he said.

“What’s that?” She pointed between his legs.

“It’s the last of Phil’s stuff.” He rubbed his forehead, thought he felt a bump.

She walked into the kitchen, hopped over the newspaper that had dried and melded to the linoleum and a bit of the shag carpet, and poured tomato juice in a cup she found in the sink. “A guy asked me out at work today.”

“Did you say yes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It was creepy. I’m still wearing my ring.”

“Was he hot?”

She sat on the couch. “He had furry hands.”

“Furry hands?”

“Like a monkey. Your dad had furry hands—he was furry all over. Probably still is. I’m glad you didn’t inherit that.” She shuddered.

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Your dad? Whenever you were here last. He called to let me know he was dropping you off and then again when he picked you up.” She squinted in concentration. “That was two, three years ago? I can’t believe it’s been so long. Time goes by too fast.”

His dad never talked about his mom and would ignore Cole whenever he’d ask about her, like she didn’t exist. And his dad would probably never talk to him again. He wouldn’t exist either. But Cole didn’t want to think about that.

The phone rang, and they both turned to the wall behind the couch.

“I’m not answering it,” he said.

“You have to.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. He’s always drunk and crying.”

“Then we’ll just let it ring.” She sipped her juice and stared at the blank TV. Under the smoke alarm was a picture of Jesus, blonde and happy with his arms stretched out. After twenty-something rings, Cole jumped up and grabbed it.

“Listen, man. You’ve got to stop calling. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Who doesn’t want to talk to me?” Myoko sounded furious.

“How did you get this number?” His chest hurt like when he ate too much mayonnaise.

“We have caller ID, dumbass.” He didn’t remember calling her, but it sounded like something he would do. “What are you doing?” she said.

“Talking to you,” he said.

“No. What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Why did you take off without telling me?” Her voice was raspy like she’d been smoking, but she didn’t smoke, or get sick.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” he said. He hadn’t seen her since she shot at him and wasn’t sure if she’d meant to miss.

“When are you coming back?”

His mom mouthed something he didn’t understand, and he shook his head and turned his back to her.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Myoko’s voice cracked.

“I’m tired,” he said. “I just woke up.”

“It’s almost seven at night,” she said.

“It’s earlier here.”

“Come home.”

“I don’t have a home.” He twisted the phone cord around his wrist.

“But you promised.”

“What did I promise?”

The man in the Cardinals uniform knocked on the screen door. The front door was still open. He slipped off his baseball cap, wiped his forehead with his forearm, and pressed his face against the screen.

“Hey, kid.” He waved at Cole. “My wife asked me to invite you over for dinner. And you too.” He looked at Cole’s mom. “You’ve got nice legs.”

“Why is he wearing Phil’s clothes?” His mom looked pale, almost blue.

“I tossed them in the dumpster,” Cole said.

“Who is that?” Myoko said.

“My mom.” His stomach hurt.

“I’m coming down there.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m grabbing the keys.”

The man knocked on the screen door again. “Are you coming? She’ll be pissed if I don’t bring you back. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Take that off.” His mom stood up and walked towards him.

“Take what off?” He stepped back.

“Take it off!” His mom kicked open the screen door and grabbed the man by the jersey. He tried to run, but she was stronger, and in a few seconds, she had him on his knees with the jersey pulled over his head. He screamed and cried as she stripped him. Cole had never seen his mom act that way and didn’t notice when Myoko hung up on him.