catfish 28

 I was on a jury many years ago and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised at how seriously they took their work.  There was a woman who had experience in negotiating who volunteered to be the foreperson and we voted her in without any trouble, and she did a good job.  It was about a sheetmetal worker who got injured on the job and he was suing the contractor he worked for and the Nabisco plant at 73rd and Kedzie where it happened.

There were a couple guys who didn't give a shit and sat at the end of the jury table and muttered to each other, and voted for whatever looked like it would bring the case to the end.  The rest of the jury was about evenly split, but when we discussed things we did it logically, there was no name calling. and everybody remained polite and civil, and eventually we came to the logical conclusion and when we rendered our verdict and the judge thanked us and we returned to our normal lives.

Some people believe that at the core Americans are decent people, if you cut away all the politicking they are honest citizens wanting to do the right thing.  I don't actually believe that myself but in this case that is the way it went and I hope it goes so for the MICRC.

And here is your Friday Catfish where we introduced to a pitiful player.

She looked up at me, the first time she looked up from her newspaper which I noticed then was turned to the For Rent section, and put down the waitress pen that she had been circling with.  She put her hand to my face and guided me into her eyes and just as I was puckering up she broke into The Sing of the Valkyries, “You are my warrior,” she said after just a little bit of it.  “You met on the field of battle, your double is a little doubtful but you made some great catches.”

 “You noticed?” I asked, because I had looked her way after every one and she had never seemed to be watching.

 “I did, my warrior,” she answered, “And I am here to collect you from the field of battle where you performed admirably, and take you to a better place.”

 Oh yes, I am thinking as she wraps her arms around me and presses me into her sweet breasts.  “Where?”

 She kind of gives me a shove, away from her bosom and then a newspaper is in my face.  “Maybe this second floor apartment on Elm Street, it has a working fireplace, wouldn’t that be cozy?”

 Sure would be.  “Sure we should do that, let’s do that.” And maybe I am not thinking too far ahead, but I never had.  “Sure,” I repeated and I was drawn back again into that bosomy softness.

 We get into the backseat of somebody’s car headed back to the bar and we’re just necking like crazy all the way back to The Great Wall, and I am still a little woozy stepping into the bar when I notice that Dan is walking up and down the bar.

 “You pukes,” he is saying.  “You make me sick.  Twenty seven to three!  You worthless Cub fans.”

 And the guys are just sitting there across two or three tables a pitcher on every one, and they’re happy enough, the games over now it’s beer time.  What’s the fuss?  What’s up with Dan for Chrissakes? 

 “Geez Dan, it’s just a game.”  I would have advised that comment.

 “Just a game?  Just a game?  Just a fucking game?”  He’s got his hands jammed onto the railing that separates the bar from the tables and his face is bright red and I’m expecting him to explode, jump the railing, do I don’t know what.  But he just stops.  “Very well then,” he said quietly, “Very well then gentlemen,” and he was out the door.

 The next day when I got back from the Big Job Dan was gone, left town was the word, but that’s all he said, nobody knew why.  Everybody was a little nervous, what if he was so pissed off that he was never coming back?  What would happen to the bunkhouse, to us, if he never came back?

 Not so much a problem for me because I would be moving into that fireplace place.  Damn that would be good.  Gina had written down the number for me, I was supposed to give them a call and I meant to, but somehow I never got around to it. 

 Thursday night after the beer run, after the beers, when we were just settling into our couches and our beery dreams, there was a ruckus at the front door, and there was Dan with some bum.  “Gentlemen,” he announced, “This is Tiger,” and Tiger, with a little shove from Dan, sprawled facedown on the floor.

 Okay, in our own way we often referred to ourselves as bums, but this guy was the real deal.  His pants and shirt were torn and grimy, but more to the point, he stunk.  It hit as he crawled across the floor towards the pile of the remnants of the beer run, the crumbled cardboard and the crushed cans and somehow he plucked an unopened can from it, held it aloft with a gap toothed grin.

 “Good eye,” Dan complimented him.  “He’s got a good eye Gentlemen,” he told us, and looking around at us sitting up in our couches, “A good eye, and a good arm.  He can thread the needle,” and we’re just staring at him and at Tiger who is having a little trouble fumbling to open the can, “or he used to, back when he was in Triple A.  Anyway meet our new pitcher.”

 And just when he said that Tiger figured out the can and it exploded a little, what with the shaking in his hands and all, but it looked like he got most of it down in his first gulp.

 It seemed to calm him a little bit and Dan took him by the scruff of his grimy neck and dragged him off to the other bedroom in the apartment which we had always assumed was Dan’s study or whatever, anyway we had never asked about it because we were always happy enough with our couches.  “This is Tiger’s room,” he announced.  “Here’s the rules for you guys unless you plan on living somewhere else.  No booze for Tiger on Thursday nights before practice, no booze on Tuesday before the game, after the game I don’t care, any other time I don’t care, that’s the deal.  And just to make sure,” and here Dan produced a Master Lock and threaded it between a couple hasps that had recently been drilled between the door frame and the door, and snapped it shut.

 As he was walking back to his bedroom Ted called out, “What’s the combination?”

 “You don’t need to know that.” Dan answered.

 “But what, what if he has to use the bathroom?”

 “I put a pail in there.”

 “Geez Dan.  What if there’s a fire or something?”

 “Save yourselves,” he answered, and then he was gone.

 Not that there had ever been a fire or anything, no reason to think there would be, but Ted walked over, examined the lock and the hasps.  “Well he could probably put a shoulder to it or something, could probably break it open.”

 “You think he could do that?” somebody asked.  “I mean do you think Tiger could do that?” and we remembered him crawling on the floor.

 “Probably not,” Ted shrugged, and we all crawled into our couches.

 Sometime before the sun rose there was noise from inside the door, a kind of scratching, a kind of moaning, and then there was like this really bad smell.

 Normally I went straight to the Great Wall from the Big Job, but I was a little curious and stopped by the bunkhouse first, and there was Dan leading a bare-naked, dripping wet Tiger out of the bathroom.  He was skin and bone and shakes and shivers.  “Hey give me a hand here,” Dan requested, and to be honest I didn’t want to even touch the guy, but it was too late to back out.

 We guided him over to one of the couches where Dan had laid out some clothes.  He had me lift him up by the arms so he could slide some underpants under his legs, some sweatpants which were way too big for him, likewise the tee shirt, the sweat shirt, and all the while Tiger is muttering, his eyes darting around.  “He’s looking for a bottle,” Dan explained.

 He went into the kitchen, leaving me to put on Tiger’s shoes and socks.  Even after the shower Tiger’s feet were disgusting, well I won’t get into it, and just as I was lacing up his shoes Dan reappeared with a cup of coffee.  Tiger’s trembling hands grabbed it from Dan’s, and he poured it, boiling hot down his throat.  Halfway through he maybe realized his mistake and coughed it up and threw it up and just for good measure pooped his pants.

 Back to the shower, back out again, another set of clean clothes, and I’d like to say he looked almost human, but that would be exaggerating.  As I’m lacing up his shoes again he’s coming around a little.  “Fuck you fuckers,” I can make out.  “Fuck you, you fucking,” and a little pause while he’s looking for a word, “You mother-fucking fuckers.”

 “Here’s the deal,” Dan starts out.  I’m getting a little tired of this phrase, a little tired of hauling this human wreck around.  “What is the fucking deal?” I want to know.

 “Went to high school with this guy.  He was a couple years ahead of me.  Greatest pitcher in the history of St Rita.  Threw two no-hitters.  We won the city championship twice, two years in a row, never happened before and since.”

 “Really?”

 “Really.  Drafted by the White Sox, into their system, and not a blazing fastball, no curveball to speak off, but what he had was control.  He could put the ball wherever he wanted to, make it look to the batters like it was going somewhere and it went somewhere else.  Best pitcher ever to come out the farm system.”

 “Oh yeah,” and here I am looking at this guy who can’t even lace up his own shoes.

 “Yeah, would’ve been in the bigs, was up for spring training after only two seasons.  Made the team, the fucking team and then the last game before breaking camp came in on relief, game on the line, a runner on third and one out. Long fly to right, easy enough catch, but the catcher couldn’t get his mask off, it was stuck or something, and he’s still standing there yanking on it when the throw comes in so Tiger, who was backing up the play ran towards home and speared it on the second hop and came down on the runner and tagged him alright, but the son-of a bitch was coming in spikes high and caught him in his pitching arm.  He was out for the season.  Had some surgery, but never made it up to the bigs again.”

 “You know Dan, I think I’ve heard that story before,” I commented.

 Dan gave me a hard stare.  “Oh yeah, where?” he wanted to know.

 “Nowhere.” I answered.  “I don’t know what I was thinking.”