A yankee red sox wedding, p.7
A Yankee Red Sox Wedding, page 7
“There is no rivalry!” Kenny screamed as the door shut in the guy’s face.
“Yeah, you’ll remember this,” Seany grumbled, “I’ll remember it too.” Seany dusted his hands like nothing had happened, walking briskly back to the bar and hurdling over by swinging his legs through his arms like a chimp. “Two bleedin’ brawls last night and one already this year. I should’ve took the day off.” He stood at the ice machine, shoveling angrily. “Come on Kenny, that was bullshit. You’re better than that, man.”
Kenny looked at Chris like nothing had happened. “Awe fuck did I do that? Sorry man.” He nabbed a wad of cocktail napkins off the fruit bin and twisted it into a gauze. “Here, shove this up your nose, it’ll stop the bleeding. I thought you bled blue? Seany back this hero up.”
Seany returned with a huge roll of napkins and a dripping homemade ice pack. “Here you are Chrissy, put this against your noggin man.” He then poured two more shots, one red and one blue, and a second blue for himself.
Not even twenty minutes after the fight and it was like there never was one; Chris more bewildered at Kenny’s motives than shaken by the ruckus. He was from the Bronx, went to high school at Cardinal Hayes in the South Bronx, and that fight was nothing. Seany downed his shot quick, begrudgingly, and hustled over to the register to tick gladly away at Kenny’s mounting tab. He then snuck to the far end of the bar and lit up a butt, reassuring the few other patrons all was well in Kenny’s Korner.
A dejected Chris and a suddenly sober Kenny discussed the brawl in detail for a short while, exchanging blame, until Chris couldn’t take anymore and tuned back into the Aloha Bowl. Oddly, Kenny displayed no interest in watching the B.C. game. He wasn’t through with Chris’ attention so he started pushing buttons. “You’ve been here two months kid, relax. What’s the rush? And I know a nice chick from Southie who’s perfect for you. She’s a Yankee fan too, hits all the Yankee bahs up here. Match made in hell.”
Chris was surprised but didn’t let it show. He’d always likened the idea of a Yankee bar in Boston to a stock market in North Korea. “So we’re both Yankee fans, big deal. How do you even know she’s a real Yankee fan, like me? She could be a Yankee Supremacist.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A Yankee Loyalist, like myself, stands by the franchise proudly, win or lose. We don’t question, we root. And we never stop appreciating our past. A Yankee Supremacist wants the manager’s head on a platter the day after a big loss, wants all the players gone that winter, and considers their loss a reflection of his own failures. Some of them even just want to see others hurting, even more so than winning themselves. Yankee Sadists they are. Anyway, there’s a profound difference.”
“Not to me. But I know the type, we got ‘em up here—self-hating daughters of Bahston. That’s what I’m talking about. They don’t have any respect for tradition anymore. They’re out for themselves. The gender gap,” he pooh’d. “What gender gap? It isn’t closing, baby, it’s gone. The only gap left is the black hole where their values went. Guys haven’t changed; we’ve always been pigs. But at least we’re consistent: beer, babes, and baseball.”
“Aw come on Kenny, the ladies today are just doing the same thing we’re all doing now aren’t they,” Seany eavesdropped sensitively. Chris often agreed with Seany regarding Kenny’s sexist double standards on a host of topics. Unlike Seany, though, he felt he wasn’t at liberty to express his own views. He respected Kenny too much and was self-conscious about what his boss might think of him, even at times when Kenny voiced obvious, pigheaded bias.
“The three B’s. Alleluia!” Kenny rejoiced, raising his shot of Red, ignoring Seany’s spoiler. Chris joined his friend and mentor reluctantly, slowly raising his shot glass. “And for the emasculation they’ve put us through. I’m telling you kid, don’t get fooled by broads up here. It ain’t the Bronx bro—they’ll take you for a ride.” Kenny gently kissed Chris’ glass with his in a tranquil show of solidarity. “Our first toast of the new millennium,” he stared into Chris’ cautious eyes. “To starting over.” Chris’ wrist remained still, midair, as he pressed the ice pack against his head with his other hand. He watched in awe as Kenny tossed down his shot and then immediately polished off his remaining pint in one take, his larynx throbbing loudly. He perked up and swiped his foamy mouth. “And none of them listen to you up here big guy,” he rehashed like only a drunken lawyer of amazing argumentative prowess could, when B.C.’s flanker raced toward the end zone for a sixty-four-yard touchdown off a Hail Mary. “Yaaaaaah!”
“Angela did,” Chris said to himself sullenly, then sipped his shot.
8
A fuzzy lime sphere orbited the earth’s wobbly axis; its insignia gyrated with alacrity casting innumerable rotations.
“Of course he does. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have asked me to the wedding,” Angela insisted regarding some yuppie she’d been dating on and off—more by his choice than hers. Wind-milling her arm overhand a hundred-eighty degrees, like Jim Palmer, she smacked the rubber green dove squarely as it reentered the atmosphere.
“Nope,” Babz yelled louder, pouncing eagerly on the tips of her lively toes. “If he cared, he wouldn’t have asked you to the wedding.” Hungover and seeing three balls coming at her at once she pulled a Mantle, aiming for the one in the middle with a stiff forehand.
“What do you mean?” Angela returned her shot in confusion.
“You heard me,” Babz grunted, back on her heels. “I mean, if he really cared about you,” she socked the ball with a quick wrist shot, “he would’ve waited till after the wedding, and then started dating you.”
“Why should he wait?” Angela huffed, returning with a forehand of her own.
They fell back, lapsing into a fluent volley. Breathe, breathe, breathe they recalled the technique discussed at Dewey’s a week earlier.
“He needs a date dummy. He’s desperate. Don’t play his game,” Babz bitch-slapped the Spalding harder.
“I am his date,” Angela whacked, double fisted.
“No,” Babz back peddled, surrounding her shot, “you’re his prize.” She sent her opponent scampering with a high arching lob. “I tried fixing you up with Todd the bartender from the Black Shamrock,” she heaved, near breathless.
New Year’s Day had to fall on a Sunday. Taking in Babz’ sermon for ninety minutes through a net was no way to begin anew. She’d much prefer talking to herself at this point: So, I met this good looking guy last night. Had to be a Christopher. Worse yet, had to be a Yankee fan. I have no love for New Year’s and less for the Yankees. When you’re a die-hard Red Sox fan, you really hate New Year’s Eve because, however optimistic you consider yourself, you know deep down it’s just another year of waiting—waiting for a year unlike all others in your lifetime, your generation, and many before. A year you champion all demons and fears and illusionary hurdles holding you back from fulfilling your potential and realizing your dreams. Waiting for a year you’ll never forget and will make sure your children don’t either. Waiting. Didn’t like him at first—couldn’t stand him, in fact. He was cute alright, and thoughtful too, and kind of funny…but he was also arrogant, sarcastic, immature, and besides, he works for Flint Insurance. Dirt bags. I mean the rest of the world is celebrating the new century, and I’m standing there talking to an ambulance chaser. No, an ambulance chasing Yankee fan! I don’t know which is worse. I couldn’t wait for the conversation to end (I think). And if that wasn’t enough, right after he tells me he’s a Yankee fan, he yanks his shirt out like a slob, turns and pulls his slacks down, enough so I can see his disgusting tattoo. I mean, I’m standing there staring at that grotesque symbol—that stupid Yankee Doodle Dandy thing with the hat and bat or whatever it is tattooed on this idiot’s butt. It’s ‘the mark of the beast’ is what it is. That’s what Aunt Tess always said. I’m surprised he wasn’t wearing 666 on his back. It’s the only damned number those jerks haven’t retired down there, and the only one they should’ve. Gross! I almost vomited; I swear on Aunt Tess’ grave when she dies, and she never will. At one point, I spilled my punch on purpose just to get away from him, and I was taught by Aunt Tess never to waste alcohol. That’s how bad it was. So bad, I can’t get his face, and that voice of his, off my mind.
Angela caught up to the descending lob, smashing the furry ball back in Babz’ face. They volleyed a good while when Angela swore she’d caught Babz stick her finger down her throat—not that the world was complaining—and throw up in the corner while serving. “‘His prize?’” Angela hustled back to the corner and swatted the bleached pea back into space.
“Yuuuuuuup,” Babz sang, gawking at the hibernating crows nesting in the dirty white canvas as she waited for the eclipsed mossy rock to plummet before slamming it passed her lunging foe’s ear at the net. “His prize,” she calmly reassured, strutting defiantly toward Angela, shaking the loser’s hand with a pro’s poise.
They sauntered lazily along the net in their white ruffled skirts and preppie matching blouses, passing two hairy, grunting cavemen in their late fifties, bouncing eagerly on the balls of their clumsy feet, one slapping his rackets webbing and the other in mid serve; his painful groan reverberating throughout the indoor court.
“Men. And they call us overdramatic,” Babz said.
Grabbing towels courtside, they continued toward the ladies’ locker room, soaking gin from their necks and foreheads. Angela sprinkled the last few drops of her bottled water on her forehead as they entered wearily into the locker room on this a special New Year’s Day edition of Frappe Sunday.
“He wants to be seen with an attractive woman at the wedding. You know, show you off, to all his Stock Exchange pals. He’ll call you when he needs you, not when you need him. You’re a commodity. All those Wall Street guys are alike. Believe me. That’s why I went into healthcare, to get away from all the filth in the financial world.”
Affront their rented lockers, surrounded by a dozen or so meddlesome Mission Hill ears, Angela was fuming over her back-handed slight and demanded clarity. “A commodity Babz?” she asked, sickened. Babz hushed her with a twisted facial gesture. “Save it for Dewey’s,” she lipped.
Blasting Meat Loaf’s Let Me Sleep on It from the speakers of Babz’ mustard colored, fast food littered Saturn, Angela couldn’t think or hear. She observed the lifelessness out there. Desolate and lethargic, uncharacteristic of the vibrant neighborhood of Mission Hill, it was New Year’s Day and everything in Boston moved in slow motion as the city had one big hangover. She felt lucky she’d caught the right bus to Mission Hill as North End’s regular schedule had been altered. As Phil Rizzuto barked from the dashboard in his erotic soliloquy, Angela placed her hand on the volume knob when Babz, staring dead ahead, grabbed her wrist. She was allowed to think, but Angela wasn’t.
Side stepping a wheelchair with extraneously obnoxious care, Babz nudged a baby stroller out of her way with a knee and staked claim to a pine cocktail table for two. Snug in the corner, beneath the gargantuan man-eater leaves and a black and white framed photo of Dewey with Steven Tyler, it would easily suffice for their real grudge match.
Babz shoved a fistful of Splendas into her pocket and rapidly stirred her frosty peppermint pumpkin frappe. “Well you were quiet the whole match,” she teased. Barbara “Babz” Nogaski, born and raised in Salem, well-educated and well spoken, divorced and self-liberated, always held the upper edge—the moral high ground—on this the almighty judgment day of Frappe Sunday.
Don’t worry Babz the match has just begun. We both know that.
“Um yummy,” Babz said before tasting. “Can’t get that in Noo Yawk.” Babz injected an anti-New York sentiment every chance she could on Frappe Sundays—a constant denouncement of Angela’s crazy idea of relocating and taking a job at a hospital in Manhattan. Angela recollected Babz’ lecture from their last Sunday: “Moving won’t change anything in your life. Everywhere you go, people are the same, jobs are the same, relationships are the same, and families are the same. Changing your environment doesn’t change you; it treats the symptom, not the cause.”
“I spoke Babz, you were just too comatose to listen. That’s why I didn’t like this ‘day game after a night game’ business. We should both be home getting ready for work tomorrow.”
“Right Ang. So, tell me more about this lawyer slime, Kenny’s friend, you met last night.”
“He wasn’t slime Babz. For the most part, he was a respectable gentleman.”
“Right. A respectable gentleman lawyer slime. Got it.”
Angela revisited her encounter with Chris as Babz pretended to listen, struggling with a sealed aspirin bottle, picking its stingy plastic skin with her prickly nail. “Anyway, you would’ve heard the whole conversation, but you were too busy snuggling on the patio with that gentleman friend of yours.”
“Oh God my head is on fire,” she shook a couple of pills out and washed them down with some flat Dr. Pepper she’d found in the sideboards of her Saturn. “I told you. You should’ve spent New Year’s with your family,” Babz unloaded with a trembling wrist. “Ah I can’t drink a Frappe today.” She pushed the mint madness toward Angela.
“You dragged me there Babz. And then you cut me loose as soon as we got there to mingle with strangers. And no way, all us Bambinos do every year is drink cheap-o champagne, toast to a Red Sox World Series never-to-be and watch that stupid ball in New York drop while Aunt Tess plays her sappy tunes on piano, cursing the Yankees to a year of misery—which never works. Well it works, but in reverse. Only in our case, it’s a hundred years of misery, not one. It’s almost biblical,” Angela withdrew, twirling the smooth broth of her Peach Frappe with a wooden mixer.
“Every action of yours has a reaction, and every decision of yours has a consequence.”
“Yes Babz, how can I not know that? I’m the only person on earth that applies to.”
“You weren’t with your family, and that North End boy next door, and ended up getting hit on by some big shot lawyer creep from Manhattan.”
“He wasn’t a creep Babz, I never said that. He’s from the Bronx and he’s just trying to make it up here. And you didn’t even meet him because you were so busy—”
“Ang, you spoke with him for ten lousy minutes, he pretended to find you attractive, and you act like he’s the man of your dreams. He’s another ringer. Another user. Just like the stock broker jerk who’s using you. He’s probably some greedy ambulance-chasing lawyer. Wait, did you say the Bronx? Oh, so I’m sorry. He’s probably some greedy ambulance-chasing lawyer and pompous ass Yankee fan to boot. I stand corrected.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know people Ang.”
“Gee Babz, a hard-working attorney and a die-hard Yankee fan. You’ve got to be kidding me…those are the reasons I should reject a man? A lot of people would take that deal. I mean, how superficial are we getting here?”
“Sounds to me like he rubs against everything you, your family, and your roots stand for.”
Angela sipped her frappe precariously, speaking underneath the conversation and right over Babz’ head. “Exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Those guys can never be trusted. Where is your pride? Don’t ever give in to your pride.”
“What pride?”
“Have sex with him.”
“What? Why would I have sex with someone I just met last night?”
“See what it does for you. See if he lives up to the pinstripes. It might lead to something…monumental.”
“You don’t have sex with someone for that reason. That’s a good way to ruin a possible relationship.”
“You’re too conservative Ang. When was the last time you—”
“Drop it Babz. I almost worked last night,” Angela pondered bleakly. “Then, this guy wouldn’t be on my mind.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I hate New Year’s. It’s depressing,” she recalled Chris’ sentiments. “Everyone’s excited, drunk, happy—at least they pretend to be—then at midnight, they’re hugging the same people they’ll give the one-finger salute to over a parking space in the strip mall the next day. I saw it happen this morning when I got off the bus.”
“Well…I was running la—oh I see, its society’s fault.”
“Look at where we work Babz. Patients in the ER aren’t phony. They are real people with real problems in real crisis, and they need a real hug. Like little Philip.”
“Who?”
“He entered almost two months ago now.” You remember Babz, when you were a total bitch to me—gee I guess that narrows it down. Angela felt better, finally tasting her tangy Frappe.
Babz tweaked her splitting skull in disbelief. How could I, the great Babz, miss anyone who passes through ER, or anyone who has the air pass through them in ER, or anything that happens for that matter. Blinking uncontrollably, she popped another aspirin and chased it with the last of her Dr. Pepper, sprinkling drops into her pleading mouth until the bottle went dry.
“When you yelled at me for helping out instead of processing insurance info.”
“Ah, yup. That I remember clearly. Sorry about that Ang, I was having a killer day,” Babz begged forgiveness, then gargled.
