Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 4
After the final game loss ended leaving the Crows at 77-85
for the year Dave took his recently solitary, reflective existence to his Weehawken condo. He wanted to study baseball tapes he had there of games he pitched. Most of the TV camera work emanated from center field and showed the action from the mound’s point of view. It was perfect for monitoring the hitter’s habits.
Sitting on the AstroTurf reminiscent couch, mesmerized by the painfully obvious pieces of “new” information that were formerly resting somewhere in his unconscious, he was startled back to the present by the phone’s ring. The base showed that it was his attorney, Peter Jaffe, calling from his office. He considered not answering it, but he was already out of the zone and the need to hear about money was so ingrained after many years of practice, it was akin to putting on his glove before going on the field.
He picked up the phone and tried to sound as if he was a guy “on the ball.” He thundered like an improperly tuned auto engine; “Peter, you have good news for me, right?”
“..........”
His voice decelerated; “Oh, sorry Marsha. Hi.”
“..........”
“No, I am not sorry to hear your voice. I just made a mistake. That’s all.”
“..........”
“I’ll hold.”
“..........”
“Peter, that’s great. That was also very fast.”
“..........”
Dave laughed; “As soon as they got notice of the papers being filed?”
“..........”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t tell her to call you. You know how she is.”
“..........”
“Okay, tack on a thousand.”
“..........”
“Yeah, sure do.”
“..........”
“No, this isn’t necessarily my last contract.”
“..........”
“Yeah, that’s true, but I’m becoming a smarter pitcher.”
“..........”
“Since the day before yesterday, maybe the day before that.”
“..........”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“..........”
“All right, all right. We’ll be fine. Lucretia got us into treasuries.”
“..........”
“I think short term, but I’m not 100 percent sure.”
“..........”
“I know. I know. What can I do?”
“..........”
“Then she’ll get half, her favorite word. There’s no pre-nup.”
“..........”
“I know you told me. When I make a mistake I do it right.”
“..........”
“Thanks a lot. Excellent work. See ‘ya.”
Dave immediately checked the websites of the funds that were previously held, discovering that Lucretia must have found another domicile for their money. He had his first panic attack since the time his mother found his pot stash in his spikes and called the cops. He called his “provider of excitement.”
Lucretia picked up on the second ring and offered a hurried; “Yes.”
Dave said; “There’s something I have to know.”
“Make it quick. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“I’ll get right to the point. Where did you park our money?”
“A Thompson-Mann fund.”
“Why’d you switch?”
“I checked rates. Their’s is better.”
“Is my name on the account?”
“You weren’t available for a signature. It doesn’t matter.
Its legally half yours.”
Dave thought; “There’s that word again. When I get home this will be straightened out.”
She purred; “Don’t you trust me?”
Dave was shocked that she’d use such a word after he had caught her unilaterally sending money to her “starving, sick mother and her artistically gifted, comic oil paint rendering brother in Manhattan. While these acts might have been deemed secretive charity the case was closed when he caught her huddling with the butcher in “One Stop’s” refrigerated meat locker. She explained it as a necessity of remaining warm while she ensured that she got the best cuts of beef. However, rather than dredging up old arguments he said; “You missed your calling. You should have been a realtor.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Poor attempt at humor. Trying to make you laugh.
Did you get short term treasuries?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Silence.
“Look at the thing. It says what it is right on it.”
“Oh come on. I told you I was busy.”
“By the way; Jaffe just called me and they dropped their case.”
“I know. I already spoke to him. Hold on.”
Dave heard the thud and waited. He distractedly glanced at his field heroics. McGuire smacked a line drive single to left on a mediocre fastball low and outside. Dave thought; “That’s right where you’re supposed to pitch him. If he got a little under it it would have gone out.” Dave hit the rewind button to watch the entire at bat. Sure enough, McGuire had moved in closer to the plate on that pitch.
Lucretia came back to the phone and with more than a hint of annoyance rattled off; “Okay. Thompson-Mann Medium Term Treasuries.”
Dave got his answer, but wanted to be irritating and said;
“Whose treasuries?” US? Canada? Russia?”
Lucretia started deadpan reading whatever was in front of her face. “Thompson-Mann Medium Term Treasuries. Four to five year obligations of the US federal government.”
“Good, good. I’d have worried if it were Russia.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be home soon.”
“How soon?”
“I figured I’d head out in the morning.”
Silence.
Dave continued; “See ‘ya tomorrow.”
Lucretia sounded as if her stomach had been punched, saying; “See ‘ya.” She hung up.
Dave gently put the receiver in its cradle. He wanted to get lost in the mental aspect of the pitching he had previously performed mindlessly. He thought positively; “If I can be mediocre without a brain, imagine what I can do with one.” He wasn’t able to fend off the next thought, which swooped into his head and sat, like a patient buzzard waiting for the inevitable;
“That probably depends on the quality of the brain. Using a poor one would probably produce worse results.” Rather than running any risks, he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.
The following morning, as soon as rush hour traffic had cleared out, Dave and his tapes were in the black BMW, on their way to the country. The two hour westward trek commenced earlier than usual this year. He would have preferred to hang around Weehawken and watch the games he had missed for a number of reasons including his pre-occupation with money and some old baseball adage which said; “Don’t let it get into your head,”
but he could not properly relax until he had his name emblazoned, not in the Hall of Fame, but on the Thompson-Mann Medium Term Treasuries account. Never a dreamer after age twelve, he always set reasonable, do-able goals. Though he didn’t realize it in the heat of the moment, Lucretia was one of those. But, she quickly became unreasonable showing the first sign four days after their marriage, when she had her long brown hair cut to an early Beatles length and then had the nerve to ask him if he liked it. He considered saying; “I’ve always had a thing about John Lennon,” but rejected the thought as too early in the relationship for sarcasm. That was saved for the four month line of demarcation, when her repetitive conversation became well entrenched; money and who gets to spend it. One of their initial attractions split into two distinct warring camps; one whose philosophy was that money was to be held on to, gaining security; archaic, neo-classical, depression inducing
claptrap; and the other who thought it was for spending and pleasure and that more will come; a Keynesian hedonist.
He turned on the radio and over a taped drumbeat he heard; Me and my bruthas chillin’ in the Chevy.
Two the muthafuckas ugly and heavy.
Can’t git no juice when the place is mellow.
Bitches don’t grind if a nigga’s yellow.
Ski mask ain’t no digs from Vail.
Downtown hoods stylish in jail.
No problem pullin’ out my nine.
See the lights, it’s almost time.
Marty Walls’ open all nite.
Just waitin’ to set the homeboys right.
Freeland just in from China.
Freeland just in from China.
Stick it out.
And I’ll find her.
Security guard got pop gun shit.
He 80 years old with epileptic fit.
Gimme that money and make it quick.
Shaky muthafuckas need a good fix.
Don’t push no buttons, yours or mine.
Cause if you do you’ll soon see Columbine.
We run to the ride, Heavy’s laughin’.
This is the closest the dead come to passion.
Freeland just in from China.
Freeland just in from China.
Stick it out.
And I’ll find her.
A white boy, with a Yaley voice trying to sound cool said;
“That was ‘Dillinger Redux’ by TSP, The Treacherous Scarsdale Pit for the uninitiated, from his new CD ‘Tek It While It There,’ winner of the New York critics award for contemporary relevance, for those of you who still give a fuck about such things.” He cleared the snot out of his nostrils, by inhaling it, presumably for emphasis. “Number two on the charts a week
after its release. We’re lucky enough to have the man in the studio with us. Tell us brutha man ...... or T. Which would you prefer?”
“My name is Elinardo Henson.”
“Dig it. Well, tell us Elinardo, what prompted you to write
‘Dillinger Redux?’ Was it recalling a night with your homeboys?”
“No, not in the least.”
The interviewer chuckled and said; “I know you have to say that. I shouldn’t have asked such a dumb question.”
“No, really. It’s not easy to explain. .......... It’s an attempt to portray the life of a song as opposed to real life; you might say words, in a style that is considered timely and relevant and at the same time showing that there is nothing new about it whatsoever. The original rappers and their fans are now grandparents. I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up I didn’t want to be into the same things my old granny was.
Hence, the title, which harkens back to the 30’s. I should add that this unreal song is juxtaposed with a society which is becoming increasingly solitary and sequestered, and as a result take their ideas of reality from what is fed to them through the media. In a sense mass entertainment, inclusive of the internet, has become more real than their own lives, or one might argue that it is their lives. At one level this song is just another possible cybernetic experience for them to add to the other
cybernetic realities in their sedentary ‘lives.’ ...... And hopefully, a lucrative one for me.”
“Then, you’re saying that what you’ve done is entirely derivative and the only thing new is the audience reaction?”
“Yes and no. But, before I answer that question would you be kind enough to advise me of something you have seen or heard in the past decade which is entirely new, bearing no relationship to any antecedent.”
“..................................”
“See, nobody can. Hip-hop and rap will soon be forty years old, and that’s only if you don’t count reggae. It has managed to be considered cutting edge long after the blade has been used for the millionth time. It’s perceived “relevance” has lasted longer than du-wop, psychedelia, R&B, the Beatles and everything else now considered dated.”
Obviously not the interview he expected the white boy derisively said; “Then why do you work in this field?”
Elinardo laughed and said; “The same reason everyone else does. Give the people what they’ve been told to want and make it
“badass.” That song took ten minutes to write and it appears as if I’ll make at least a few million from it.”
“It’s only money to you?”
Elinardo said; “This is getting fucking stupid, even by today’s ‘entertainment’ standards.” The sound of a chair
squeaking against a floor and a door slamming were heard.
Elinardo knew that walking out would enhance his “bad” image, even though he had not been convicted of assault.
Dave thought that would be hard to top and turned off the radio. “A man after my own wallet. Potty mouth lyrics a bit much for the Midwest though.” He drove through the narrow, hilly streets of Weehawken, a city on the Palisades, fascinated by its diversity. Across the river from Harlem, it accommodated the high income Manhattan commuters not overly concerned with being fashionable as in the high rises he saw from his condo windows.
It also was home to sixty year old least cost housing, often an attached two story box, near an abandoned factory, which once employed the residents. Dave wasn’t sure who lived there now. He only saw angry looking teenagers patrolling the streets and glaring into strange cars passing through, like his. Then there were the in-betweeners. Older folks living in Victorian styled houses, once all the fashion before people ran to the more distant new suburbs. Dave’s small, ten unit condo was placed in this community where three contiguous Victorians succumbed to fire in 1969. The tiny business district boasted a five star restaurant and a few others, each specializing in food supposedly popular in other countries. Dave often took out from the Thai place. Other stores came as stubborn “quality”
resistance to the nearby malls and went as students of Economics 101. He intended to stop in “Comics and Phonics” sometime soon.
He had thought that since its opening in 2010. All this variety was situated on only a bit more than a square mile of potholed streets, contradicted by the steep hills which provided fantastic panoramas to many.
As he left town Dave felt as if he was abandoning an old friend who was no longer young enough to enjoy the day without a two hour nap. He got on Route 78, an east-west super highway with a minimum of six lanes and a posted 70 mile per hour speed limit. He went west to Lucretia and their Tewksbury “country”
house, leisurely staying in the flow of traffic at a seemingly sluggish 80. Out of the corners of his eyes he watched the landscape change from gritty urban car repair shops, to whitewashed suburban malls and most-valuable-asset-houses with excellent school districts, unspoken codename white and finally to the hilly woods surrounding the sprawling state women’s prison. Dave was five minutes from home.
The planked wooden bridge over the rocky stream sounded like a locomotive on a curve when Dave’s BMW crossed over, as always making him vow to soon check if any boards were in need of replacement. Without coming to a full stop he opened the trendily rusted, faux Elizabethan, iron gate of recent vintage.
The mute electronic clicker produced creaks and whirrs worthy of
a drawbridge crew humming; “Hi, ho.” Dave sped up the driveway as it closed behind him and parked on the gravel right behind Lucretia’s SUV, effectively blocking it in the open garage, to prevent a rolling escape. As he walked the pink tulip lined brick path to the front door he gazed at the undulating wooded property, the trees still holding on to most of their plumage, the willows showing a week’s entry into fall. Birds pecked at the ground around the descended warm weather overlays attempting to liberate juicy worms.
Before he saw much more of the structure than the colonial’s pale yellow aluminum siding which effectively mimicked clapboarded wood from distances of more than five feet and the screwed-in green window shutters, the front door opened and in it stood Lucretia with one elevated hand against the frame. She rolled her wide hips which were tightly encased in a well-worn pair of blue jeans, two sizes too small and stretched like a trampoline. Dave saw no panty lines. She said; “I got what you came for, baby,” and he remembered what he liked about her. He followed her through the center hall to the kitchen at the far left. She went through the open door and he eagerly tailed, his eyes on the fissured feature in plain view. There were two side by side pieces of paper on the cherry, double-gated “Pilgrim” (sometimes called William and Mary) table. She reached down for a pen and handed it to him, saying; “Sign these
and your name will be added to the Thompson-Mann account.” Dave took his time reading the documents, careful not to miss any hidden surprises while Lucretia breathed heavily, impatient for his signature. Dave finally got there at his own pace and signed his first autographs of the year. She picked up the papers and said; “I’ll bring them to the Post Office right now. You can check it on the computer in a couple of days.”
He said; “You’re fantastic, baby. But I blocked you in.”
“No problem. I’d rather drive your BMW anyway.” She blinked her green eyes, put her hand out palm up and purred; “Gimme the keys.”
His important mission done, he lethargically complied and then sat on one of the six matching “Brewster” chairs. He smiled as he watched her wiggle her way through the door, long brown hair swaying over her white blouse. He thought; “What a great girl. Knew exactly what I wanted.” His eyes went to the open window and he admired the thickly wooded back of his ten acre parcel.