catfish 22

 Every now and then there will be some little item, usually as filler at the end of the local news about a hobo convention whose aim is to elect a King of the Hobos.  

The name Arizona Slim seemed vaguely familiar so I googled his name to see if maybe he had once been king, but all I came up with was a movie about which there was not to be said, and what appeared to be a rap group, and most of the posts were about a jean manufacturer.

Amarillo Slim that was who I must've been thinking of.

Anyway speaking of culture heroes, here is Catfish.  There is foreshadowing of what will be a dark turn in the story and then we will have a lovely dinner with the lovely Gina, and then Catfish will stop short at third. Happy Friday and a good weekend for you guys, and all the best to Groot.

- This just in, they are making an omelette on the radio and the student was asking about eggs which she usually does not refrigerate because she likes to keep them warm for making pasta, and the chef said you can do that in Europe where they don't wash their eggs like they do in the USA which removes some protective covering allowing bacteria in so you have to keep them in the fridge-

 

Still I made it out to practice that Friday.  Ron had established himself in centerfield by then.  I didn’t care.  I was out in right field where almost no balls came my way, which was just fine too.  Trotting in from the outfield Ron sidled up to me.  “Man what’s wrong with you?” he wanted to know. 

Well I told him.  I guess I forgot that I was supposed to be pissed at him, he was just an ear and I was beat.

 “Big Red,” I said.

 “Crazy fucker.” He answered.  If Ron, a crazy fucker himself thought he was a crazy fucker, where did that put Big Red?”

 “Look,” he said, “I could do something for you.”

 “What do you mean?”

 He shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

 What did that mean, though I have to tell you I had an idea, a slip of a crane full of steel beams came immediately to mind, terrible shame and all, felt good thinking about it, but no, that was not the kind of guy I was.

 Ron looked a little disappointed that I wasn’t with that program, but he was my friend, he wanted to help me out.  He was a foreman, he could get me switched to his team, he could make me a marker.  You just walked around with a clipboard, copied numbers from here and there, and that was basically it.  Well he was a bullshitter, I knew that, but if he could do that for me I was all for that.

 He trotted right down to the 12 pack by home plate with me, and as I was pulling one out he asked, “How’s it going with that Gina?”

 This was a little closer to my business than I wanted him to be, but I answered “Okay.”

 He leaned into me to pull out the next beer and said kind of quietly, “I’d look out for that Itch.”

 “Itch is a friend of mine, and anyway he’s not interested –“, and then I cut it short, I wasn’t going to get into that whole thing with him.

 “Okay then,” he said and then he was walking off to where the bats were stacked up.

 I could see what he was doing, trying to put me on his side against Itch, stupid thing because Itch wasn’t interested at all in Gina.  Still I went out and bought a new cowboy shirt, a little fancier than the one I’d worn the week before, more of those little flowers stitched in up and down the sleeves.  Cost a bit more than last week’s shirt.

 “How come it costs so much?” I asked the clerk.

 “Well, you know those are pearl buttons,” he answered.

 “Really, real pearls?”

 He didn’t say anything for a second, and then he said, “Yes.”

 Ah that pause kind of gave it away, but they were probably close to pearls, some kind of artificial thing, but probably pretty close, almost the same thing really, otherwise it wouldn’t have cost so much, but what the hell I was making good money. 

 Got a few catcalls from the bunkhouse as I was buttoning it up.  “Damn,” said Ted, “you look pretty enough to eat.”

 Pissed me off a little, “You think?” I asked.

 “Not what I think, what Gina thinks,” and he made kind of a winking face.

 Damn, everybody was in my business, and you know I used to be into this kind of kidding, used to do it all the time about some girl I was working on, but now I didn’t like it, still I puffed out my chest a little, struck a little muscle pose, “We’ll just see what she thinks,” and then I was embarrassed again and went out the door.

 There she was, my little sweetheart. My little Gina, dark hair hanging loose, her little sweet butt on the barstool, her white bloused breasts, where not too long ago my fingers had roamed, hanging low just over the edge of the bar.

 And there was Itch, hanging casually just across the bar from her, his elbow to my mind a little too close to what I had so recently fondled. 

 And that shirt, which I had paid a pretty penny for and had just put on from the package so I knew it was ironed just right, and like I said, had those flowers all up and down the sleeves, didn’t seem to have any impact at all.  She smiled at me, and then turned back to Itch and continued talking about some girl called Mimi.

 Mimi?  Didn’t ring a bell at all.  “Who’s Mimi?” I asked, sliding my arm around her shoulders.

 “From La Boheme,” she answered.

 “Where’s La Boheme?” I asked.

 It turned out that it was an opera, a big famous opera, tragic story, this Mimi dies of TB or something, I imagine belting out like tortured cats as she fades out to meet her maker.

 But the thing was how did Itch know anything about this?  Oh I suppose he was some kind of cultured guy, certainly acted like one sometimes, but opera?

 “You know,” I said, “how about if I take you out to dinner, some fancy place?”

 “That would be nice,” she answered leaning back into my arm, “Where were you thinking of?”

 Damn, now that I thought of it, I didn’t know any fancy places, some hotel I was thinking, don’t they always have fancy places?  “How about the Ramada?” I ventured.

 She kind of stiffened under my arm, “That would be nice I suppose,” she said but I didn’t get the impression that she supposed any such thing.

 “Or we could go somewhere else, is there somewhere else you might want to go?”

 “Could we go to,” and she took a little breath, “to La Trattoria?”

 I didn’t know La Trattoria from La Boheme, but that little catch in her voice told me that this would be a big deal, would power me right around third, “Sure,” I said.

 I made a point as we were gathering up our things of mentioning to Itch that we were going off to La Trattoria. “Be sure to try the mussels,” he said, that fuck.

 She was right under my arm and I swear that she was tingling.  I stepped out into Sixth Street and pointed my finger in the air and a cab pulled right up, just like in New York City, ushered her into the seat and told the cabbie, “La Boheme.”

 “La Trattoria,” she corrected me, and we had a little giggle in the backseat.

 I knew a couple things.  There would be a little glass of water put in front of us, but you don’t drink that, it’s something called the finger bowl, and you just twitter your fingers in it.  And when you get your bottle of wine the waiter will hand you the cork, and the best thing to do is give it a quick sniff and nod your head.

 I didn’t expect that when we got to that little altar thing with the little light, that the guy would say, “We don’t allow blue jeans here.”

 Well shit, I wanted to point out that those buttons on my shirt were genuine pearl, or pretty close to it anyway, but Gina ran a little interference for me, took the guy off to the side, bent low showing that magnificent cleavage or hers, did a little of that cat-killing singing of hers, but soft so it was like a purr, and then we were walking into the dining room.

 It was nice.  That finger bowl thing never happened, and I did that cork smelling thing just fine, pretended that I was thinking about it and then nodded.  Food was okay, maybe I drank too much of the wine.  You know you pay for the bottle, you might as well drink it all up.

 Rounded third base that night, got inside the door, got onto her bed.  You know maybe I could have scored.  Maybe I should’ve made a dash, but the left fielder had a good arm, it would’ve been a close play.  The closer I got the more she started drawing away, and I could feel her arm about to tap me on the shoulder, and I just stopped. 

 I could feel things setting up for the discussion. 

 “You know Catfish I really like you but-“

 “Ah but Baby, you know we really have something

 “I really like you Catfish I do, it’s just that-“

 Oh fill in anything there.  And then there would be us sitting on the edge of the bed, me getting my arm around her reaching for her tender parts, and her squirming away, “You’re not listening to me.”  Of course I wouldn’t be listening to her, I’d just make some little joke to lighten up the situation, to distract her, to ease her into a more reclining position.

 Ah hell.  “You know what, I love you babe.” And I gave her a quick kiss and let her go.  “I guess I’ll see you next week,” and then I was straightening up my clothes.

 And you know, she looked a little disappointed, I think she was looking forward to the tussle, but the catcher already had the ball and I was trotting back to third.