Cloud Watching – FCF1

Back to Rita and the dance floor porn

Shakin’ it, Shakin’ it all night long

Keep it up dance, How long can you last?

The tempo’s fast, shake that ass…

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“Ryan! What are you listening to??!!”  

The kitchen drapes bust open.

“Jus’ the radio Maa-oom!”  

I scurry to the far end of the concrete patio to my Sanyo boombox underneath the overhang.

“Shiit… the dial isn’t even at five. How the fuck did she hear it from inside?”

I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’ ma-aaahh” 

I bolt to the boombox to turn the volume dial to zero. I then sheepishly make my way to the kitchen window that overlooks the front side of the backyard.  

“Mommy-eee, what time is it?”

“Mmm-hmm… it’s a quarter to six.”

“Cool… okay… wait. What are we eating?” 

“Your sister wants spaghetti.”

“Again?”

She opens the drapes even further to make direct eye contact through the screen.

“Have you done your chores?”

“I just got to take out the garbage… I’ll do it after I’m done out here.” 

“You should have done it before you spent most of the afternoon throwing baseballs against the wall.”

I pull out my puppy eyes that somehow still work through my bottle cap glasses. 

“Hmmph…Fine. Just make sure nothing gets in my garden. I watered the flowers this morning and it looked like one of your baseballs…”

“Gotcha-aaa, mom. Thanks!!!”

“Aaand stop listening to that music or I’ll take you to confession tomorrow at St Zach’s!”

“Allll-right-ttth, mom!!! Geeezzz!!!

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BREATHE.

I make my way back to the far end of the patio and eject the Supreme Maxell cassette tape labeled, “DJ Devastation ‘91 Mix” to gauge how much of the mixtape has left on that side. “Cool… last song”

I slowly twist the volume dial to four and three quarters and pop it back in and press play. A sharp chill from the golden hour breeze hits the beads of sweat on my neck.  Shaking it off, I grab my RGB4 mitt along with the bucket of balls sitting next to the boombox. With my gear in tow, I mosey down to the edge of the concrete and onto the manicured lawn, gently lowering the bucket onto the grass.  Something about being out here. It feels like a different world. 

In the open space, the sun is relentless, beating down on me.  I look up towards the azure heaven to soak it in, but my attention is immediately drawn to the several planes from O’Hare soaring over me, as I visualize connecting them like dots. I feel small. 

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FOCUS.

The click from the end of the cassette brings me back as the ghost afterimages fade away. All I hear is myself breathing. It’s like I’m the only person on this blue rock.

I feel the double knit polyester of my navy Waycinden jersey and mesh cap sticking to me. I start to hear the world again, accompanying the familiar crescendo of “The Entertainer” from a passing ice cream truck.

The light pours in, just as the fresh scent of the laundry snapped on the clothesline a few paces wraps around me. I close my eyes tight to let in the reddish-orange glow, lift both my arms and let the momentum take over as I swing them till they burn.

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TAKE ANOTHER DEEP BREATH. 

My eyes open to bursting spots. I shake my head and adjust my glasses with my nose to keep them from falling off. I rummage through the bucket of baseballs— the rosin bag is, of course, always buried— and grab it. I playfully tap it up in the air as many times as I can till it hits the ground. I rub my index and middle finger on the brim of my hat, then lay them on the figure-eight and brace my thumb along the bottom.

Thud! Thud!

Listen to these fans, Steve! 39,000 Wrigley faithful on their feet cheering for the youngster who has been lights out today. He is only one strike away from a perfect game.

26 up, 26 down, Harry.  The hometown kid… in his major league debut against this vaunted Pirates lineup… He also has a chance to make history and eclipse the record of most strikeouts in a nine-inning game held by the Red Sox’s Roger Clemens. 

21 strikeouts. That’s a lot of Buccos!  I’m telling you what… this kid looks the part, doesn’t he, Arnie?  Sluggo! Don Slaught digs back into the batter’s box… the  backup catcher, pinch hitting is in the hole with two strikes.. Fernandes gets the sign from Wilkins and hhh-eeere-ahhh is the pitch… aaand-aaaa…

K-chunk… Rrrrrrrrrr clank, clank. 

The rumble of chains and gears as the garage door rises drowns out my imagination. The jolt of sound always caught me off guard, only to be replaced by the subdued purr of the V8 of a 1988 Cadillac Coupe Deville creeping into its spot. And with a counterclockwise turn of the key the sound of 155 horses dozes off. He takes a few moments to gather himself along with his coffee mug and briefcase. Then, a mischievous, jolting honk echoes throughout the house at 111. It was his signal to let us know that he was home.  

**********

HOW DO YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW? 

I can’t help but smile. That moment I’d wait for all day. 

I dash to the left side where my audience of one, Timmy, is waiting. My golden retriever is settled in under the shade on his beaten up white plastic chaise, nestled among the patio furniture. I know I don’t have much time but I can’t ignore his wagging tail. I sit next to him and rub his ears and the top of his head.  Silk and love is all I feel.  “Stay, boy!”

I snatch the rubber mound laid next to his chaise and bolt to the back of the garage. I pause to feel the graininess of the taupe brick wall, my fingers tracing the lines of the chalk strike zone I drew on it. I then pace out twenty steps to lay the mound near the base of the lawn.

**********

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Yeah… those had some ride to it. I’m ready!” 

I push my glasses back into place again before they slip off and peek over at the storm door, hoping to catch his silhouette before he opens it. The hair on the back stands up in anticipation. I can also feel the mosquito bite on one of my goosebumps start to itch, but I’m too busy to worry about it. “

Hopefully he will break out his catcher’s glove so I can sling it.”  

**********

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

The smell of barbecue begins to envelop the air, and my stomach answers with a growl. The internal noise is loud enough to challenge the blaring soundtrack of the numerous lawnmowers still running across the neighborhood.

“He must be snacking on something before he comes out.”

**********

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The bustling sound of the neighborhood fades away, the faint chirps of crickets and lightning bugs drifting through the yard provide the ambience along with the cool, rich smell of damp earth. The sky looks like it’s on fire.

“I better go in the garage and turn the patio light on before the sun goes all the way down.”

**********

Thud! Thud!

Dusk descends, silence ascends. I look up. I see an infinite of black. I feel small. 

“He must be talking to mom or something.”

**********

YOU ARE DOING GREAT. KEEP GOING… 

I can’t tell you the last song I played on that boombox. The last pitch I threw last against that brick wall. The last time he honked his car horn to let us know he was home, or even the last time I imagined pitching for the Cubs. 

I wish I could. I wish I could recount every conversation, every joke, and every laugh we shared during those times. Maybe then I wouldn’t need to write any of this. All I have are vague memories and regret.

**********

Thud! 

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“He isn’t coming, is he?” 

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