reason.”
“Because it would be getting your hopes up, okay?”
A spiked wall at a hundred miles an hour. The final blow. Ihated her for doing it and I wanted to let her know. I wanted to bomb her, to attack from all sides, but it would be a suicide mission, I knew. All I could do was hang up. Extra-hard. It made a big noise in my apartment, but to her it probably sounded like a little click.
three
was the opening jingle to ESPN's
SportsCenter.
When I heard it, I knew I had at least a half hour of peace ahead of me. As I stared at the day's highlights and results, everything else was forgotten. Likewise, the thing that got me out of bed in the morning was the thought of staring at the sports page while sipping my coffee. I loved to see how the underdogs had made out. Guys like Jim Eisenreich, still playing despite being nuts; Jim Abbott, the Angels' one-armed hurler; and Dickie Thon, the All-Star who'd been beaned in the prime of his career and was now hanging on by a thread. Sometimes I skipped the stories, just checked out the stats. My favorite player was Wade Boggs. He wasn't an underdog, but he was the most reliable and he played for the Sox. Win or lose, something about seeing that Boggsie hadbanged out two or three hits made my day. It was a fact and it was right there in black and white and this was somehow comforting.
Sunday was the best day for stats, but this Sunday, it wasn't the sports section I was thinking about when I went down to the market. It was the first Sunday in May and the
L.A. Times Magazine
was publishing my story today. A desperate-sounding editor named Arnold Sternberg had been the one to call. A piece had fallen through, they needed something quick, Julia Frick's assistant had shown him mine. I had mixed feelings. It was nice to finally be a published writer, even if it wasn't exactly accurate. At least I'd gotten part of the truth out. That was good, I supposed. It would be called
The jumper.
Back home I put lima beans on a soft tortilla, melted cheese on it, and took it out on the front steps with the paper, a cup of coffee, and a glass of ice water. I read the sports section, the calendar section, and the front section, and then there was only one thing left. It was making me sick thinking about it. But what happened wasn't my fault, I told myself, any reasonable person would have done the same. I heard a bell and watched an ice cream truck pull up across the street. A half dozen little ones came running with their dollar bills. No adults followed, no one stood in doorways and watched. I thought how odd it was that parents would check out babysitters, investigate preschools, glare at their own neighbors, but when that ice cream man came ringing, they set the kids loose as if they were going out to meet Christ himself. Where did the ice cream man come from? Who made his slushes? What was his name, his background, his intentions? From my angle I couldn't see the man, but I caught a glimpse as he hopped back in the front seat and drove off to who knew where.
I stared at the cover of the magazine section, a big red sickle, an article about the new Russia. It seemed so prestigious, so worldly— my name in a magazine that published stories about Russia! It would have been wonderful if I hadn't recorded the last three minutes of a person's life inaccurately.
I threw the papers in the trash and headed out to the driving range. The traffic was heavy and I checked out all the good-looking drivers in their shiny vehicles. The people were definitely better-looking out here, the girls at least. They blew those Bicnags—Bos-ton-Irish-Catholic-No-Action-Girls—out of the water.
As I took the corner onto Beverly, a cute redhead with a big smile sped around me singing to herself. A happy woman, it had been so long! What I wouldn't give to meet a happy woman. I sped up to her. Briefly I considered ramming her Jeep, taking full blame, getting her phone number. I pulled my Arrow up on her right at a
“Because it would be getting your hopes up, okay?”
A spiked wall at a hundred miles an hour. The final blow. Ihated her for doing it and I wanted to let her know. I wanted to bomb her, to attack from all sides, but it would be a suicide mission, I knew. All I could do was hang up. Extra-hard. It made a big noise in my apartment, but to her it probably sounded like a little click.
three
was the opening jingle to ESPN's
SportsCenter.
When I heard it, I knew I had at least a half hour of peace ahead of me. As I stared at the day's highlights and results, everything else was forgotten. Likewise, the thing that got me out of bed in the morning was the thought of staring at the sports page while sipping my coffee. I loved to see how the underdogs had made out. Guys like Jim Eisenreich, still playing despite being nuts; Jim Abbott, the Angels' one-armed hurler; and Dickie Thon, the All-Star who'd been beaned in the prime of his career and was now hanging on by a thread. Sometimes I skipped the stories, just checked out the stats. My favorite player was Wade Boggs. He wasn't an underdog, but he was the most reliable and he played for the Sox. Win or lose, something about seeing that Boggsie hadbanged out two or three hits made my day. It was a fact and it was right there in black and white and this was somehow comforting.
Sunday was the best day for stats, but this Sunday, it wasn't the sports section I was thinking about when I went down to the market. It was the first Sunday in May and the
L.A. Times Magazine
was publishing my story today. A desperate-sounding editor named Arnold Sternberg had been the one to call. A piece had fallen through, they needed something quick, Julia Frick's assistant had shown him mine. I had mixed feelings. It was nice to finally be a published writer, even if it wasn't exactly accurate. At least I'd gotten part of the truth out. That was good, I supposed. It would be called
The jumper.
Back home I put lima beans on a soft tortilla, melted cheese on it, and took it out on the front steps with the paper, a cup of coffee, and a glass of ice water. I read the sports section, the calendar section, and the front section, and then there was only one thing left. It was making me sick thinking about it. But what happened wasn't my fault, I told myself, any reasonable person would have done the same. I heard a bell and watched an ice cream truck pull up across the street. A half dozen little ones came running with their dollar bills. No adults followed, no one stood in doorways and watched. I thought how odd it was that parents would check out babysitters, investigate preschools, glare at their own neighbors, but when that ice cream man came ringing, they set the kids loose as if they were going out to meet Christ himself. Where did the ice cream man come from? Who made his slushes? What was his name, his background, his intentions? From my angle I couldn't see the man, but I caught a glimpse as he hopped back in the front seat and drove off to who knew where.
I stared at the cover of the magazine section, a big red sickle, an article about the new Russia. It seemed so prestigious, so worldly— my name in a magazine that published stories about Russia! It would have been wonderful if I hadn't recorded the last three minutes of a person's life inaccurately.
I threw the papers in the trash and headed out to the driving range. The traffic was heavy and I checked out all the good-looking drivers in their shiny vehicles. The people were definitely better-looking out here, the girls at least. They blew those Bicnags—Bos-ton-Irish-Catholic-No-Action-Girls—out of the water.
As I took the corner onto Beverly, a cute redhead with a big smile sped around me singing to herself. A happy woman, it had been so long! What I wouldn't give to meet a happy woman. I sped up to her. Briefly I considered ramming her Jeep, taking full blame, getting her phone number. I pulled my Arrow up on her right at a
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