catfish 18

 I had never said anything about Beagles's local station, just that it was owned by Sinclair.  Beagles says that he has never noticed the right wing feed, and a very cursory internet investigation on my part yielded nothing, so perhaps it is ivory clean, of course that doesn't mean they couldn't slip in something tomorrow.

Ah, at last a bit of lit crit.  Thankyouverymuch.  And herein Catfish does not get laid, but he does get to second base.  Sorry about that font glitch at the beginning.  I am going from a Word doc and both Word and blogger are hinky about cutting and pasting their fonts.

I was just dragging my twelve pack out to centerfield a few days later when I heard a strangely familiar voice and looked up and it was Ron.  What the hell was he doing there?  Well he had been working at the big job before the guys in the bunkhouse had gotten hired, and I had noticed them drinking together at the bar, and you kind of figured he would be a big jock.  And now he was walking towards me.

"I said,“How's it going?" Ron asked, and I had to shake my head, all those things running through my mind.  "It's okay." I said, not too friendly, thinking of poor Tammy's shiner.

 "Hey, I can spell you out here, if you want to get some bats in," he said like he was doing me a favor. 

"No," I said, "I think I'll stay right here," and turned around to look at the infield where nothing much was going on because Dan wasn't even getting close to the plate. 

"Suit yourself," he said in his Ron way, but I noticed that he didn't move to left or right field, and I turned around and looked at him kind of irritated.

"Hey, uh, can I say something?" he asked, not in a Ron way at all. 

"Suit yourself," I snapped back. 

"Well, I, I wanted to thank you."

 Thank me?  I turned around and looked at him. 

"For the other night, that Island Girl thing.  You know I was going to punch him, punch him a good one." 

And he sounded a little too happy about that last thing, but then he went on, "But I'm glad I didn't.  It would have been a stupid thing.  I'd had a few, you know, and sometimes he can be such an asshole," and it seemed like he caught himself there and toned it down.  "But he's not a bad guy, just kind of different I guess." and he let that hang.  "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for running that interference thing,that was a pretty smart thing you did, Thanks."

 I half expected him to walk up and offer me that hammy hand of his, which I was not inclined to shake because there was still the matter of Tammy's shiner, but he just faded out into left field.

 About that time Dan's pitches started getting closer to the plate and wild swingers were hitting some out to the outfield, and I have to say I didn't catch any of them.  That long afternoon at The Great Wall, and my poaching of the twelve pack in center field took its toll.  I fell down a couple times and there was mud and a little bit of blood in my mouth when I staggered back to the twelve pack behind home plate to wash it all down. 

That was Friday afternoon, spent Friday night, normally a prime Catfish night at The Great Wall, passed out and dirty on that crumby red couch, not that I was in any shape to notice.  Woke up Saturday stiff and sore, never made it out of the bunkhouse, had to listen to Dan's recap of the practice.  Ron had taken centerfield after I had left and played it like a natural to hear Dan tell it, hit like a ton of bricks too. 

Sunday I was still stiff and sore, walked like that old guy who was sitting next to me on the Greyhound on the way into Champaign, and felt like him too I imagined.  But I knew Gina worked that night, and even though the last time I had seen her she was slamming the door in my face, I had gotten as far as the clasps on the back of her bra.  And there she was in her bra, well in her other clothes as well, but I had my goal well in mind. 

It would have helped if I had been able to smoothly slip into the barstool next to her instead of crawling in like a cripple, if I had something more clever to say than, "Ooph," and she had a better response than, "What the hell happened to you?" which I guess was her reflection on the bruises and scratches on my face, I would have been more confident about my next move. 

But hell, women like their men a little beat up, a little fresh from the fight, and that athlete thing, I had that going.  "Oh I was out in centerfield," I said casually, shaking my head as I was shaking off my injuries. 

"Centerfield," she wanted to know, "Where is that?" 

Was she kidding me?  Was this some kind of Buster the cat thing?  But she didn't look like she was joking.  "Centerfield," I repeated, "It's in the outfield, it's between right field and uh, left field, you know, in the middle like." 

She had to pause to think about this, and then she brightened up, "Is this a baseball thing?" she asked. 

"Yes," I said.  Geez. 

"So you were playing baseball?" 

"Well softball actually." 

"But it's like baseball, right?" 

"Yes." 

"Why were you doing that?" 

"For the team." 

"What team?" 

"The Great Wall team, you haven't heard?" 

"No," she said, "I haven't," and she was looking a little bored. 

"We're getting up a team, for the restaurant, you know, a Great Wall team," and I swept my arm out gesturing over the bar and back towards the restaurant, because she didn't seem to be getting it. 

"A Great Wall team?" 

"Yes, yes, a Great Wall Team.  We will be playing for the restaurant, for George, the customers, the cooks and the waitresses, like you," and I took the opportunity to put my finger on her nose, a cute little gesture to get the focus back to the situation at hand, which was me taking the wide turn around first and setting my eyes at second. 

"So you're doing it for me?" she asked and I set my cleats into the path towards second. 

"Yes I am, for you Darling," stretching out my arm to enclose her shoulders, another step. 

She leaned back against my arm, pursed her lips, "Does this mean I will be getting bigger tips?" 

"Oh yes, oh yes indeed, when they hear about our latest victory, they will just mob the place to eat that Champ chop suey, that First Place fried rice." 

"Mmmm," she murmured, cozy in the crook of my arm.  She knew it was all bullshit, and I knew she knew it, and she knew I knew she knew she knew it, but women like that, they like it when their man bullshits them, it shows that he cares.  

And then, just as I had committed to second, she asked, "Is Itch on the team?" 

Damn.  "Well yeah, he's uh, first base, in the infield, not really in the action, you know." 

"Probably good for him, though, don't you think, get him out in the fresh air and all, get his mind off all that bitter stuff he always seems to be stewing about? Give him some, direction. I guess." 

And just then he dropped by, looked at our empty glasses, and wanted to know if we wanted another round.  I'm always up for another round, but right then I wanted to get Gina out onto the path to her apartment, into the cool summer evening air, strolling down the brick sidewalks through the shadows of the streets, but she pushed her little wine glass forward.  "I'll have another," she said sweetly.  "Yeah, me too," I shoved my glass at him. 

When he came back with the drinks he was carrying something folded over his arm.  When he set the drinks down he said, “Hey Catfish, I got something for you,” and he pulled it off his arm and stretched it out.  It was a tee shirt, on the front was a hula girl and across her grass skirt in big red letters it said ‘Island Girl.’ 

Gina burst out laughing so I joined right in even though I was a little suspicious, was Itch making fun of me?  But no, he launches into this little speech about how he appreciates my whole little Island Girl thing, how quick thinking I was, how I had the gift of gab, all while Gina is watching attentively.  This was great.  When he finally ran out of things to say I quickly asked, “And what about handsome?  Don’t you want to say something about my ruggedly outdoorishly good looks?” 

Itch smiled, “Indeed I do.  You are a handsome man Natty,” and he turned to Gina who was eating this all up, “You’re a lucky lady, Gina.” 

Oh and she giggled, maybe a little too much, and her hands fluttered on the bar, also maybe a little too much because I noticed that she brushed up against his hand as he was pulling away.

But I chose to ignore that, because wasn't I the hero, and the centerfielder too? 

The walk back to her apartment was fine too, the evening air, the tall trees, the bumping of hips.  It was wet outside her apartment door and I left twitching my fingers at the feel of her nipples between my knuckles.  I was safe at second and third base was just a sprint away.  The door closed softly.