wild violet | hot heart - way to hustle by wes prussing

Way to Hustle

(continued)

The hot weather is gone. It’s windy and overcast all week. Joan seems to lose interest in Lawrence and his chopped-out Harley. By December he’s history. So are the motorcycle rides. I kind of miss them now that Lawrence is gone. Life’s like that, but you gotta learn to move on. At least that’s what I’m told all the time.

Joan seems to take it all in stride. Maybe she just wanted to ride in a car once in awhile. Who knows?

Joan dates other guys; from what I’ve seen, they’re even bigger losers then Lawrence. Some look much older. One guy is in a band and is always singing doo-wop songs. You can imagine how annoying that can be. I practically live at Mark’s house. Sometimes I go straight to his house after school. We play ball or just hang out until dark. Sometimes he takes off right in the middle of a game or when we’re just watching TV. I don’t mind. He’s got lots of other friends. He doesn’t want me around 100 percent of the time. Sometimes, to be honest, it’s a relief.

If Joan is home, we sit and talk. She tells me about books she’s read or movies she’s seen. It’s nice when Mark’s not there. It’s like we’re on a date or something.

When Mark and I get tired of basketball, we play stickball. We play it with a broom handle and a pink rubber ball. Mark can pitch incredibly fast. I can hit pretty good. Mark always wins, but at least he doesn’t have to spot me points.

We usually play on the handball courts near the community college. There are about a half-dozen strike zones painted on the tall concrete walls. Occasionally, you’ll find a couple of people hitting tennis balls or playing roller hockey inside the fence. I’ve never seen anyone playing handball. Not even Mark and I play handball.

It’s mid-afternoon and in the low 50s. I’ve got a sweatshirt on. It’s one of those cloudless, clear days that make you feel completely alive. Strong.

I’m hitting very consistently. I’m up two runs in the last hitting. Mark tells me his shoulder is sore, but he’s burning them past me pretty good. Like I say, it’s one of those days. Nothing is getting by me.

I’ve got the bases loaded and can put the game away. Mark peers at me from beneath the beak of his Yankee cap. His face looks red. He mops his brow with his shirtsleeve and glares at the rectangle of black paint. When he finally throws the ball I hear a sound escape from deep down in his gut. I’ve heard this sound before. It’s the sound you make when you get kicked in the balls.

I try to duck, but the ball catches me in the left ear. A lightening bolt of pain rockets through my head, and suddenly I’m on my back. I try to gather my thoughts, but my ear is ringing like a one-note church bell. I see Mark’s face float into view. He’s grinning. He says, “You all right?”

I nod and try to stand.

He grabs my hand and helps me up. “You shouldn’t crowd the plate like that.”

I nod again, not really listening.

“Come on, let's finish the game.” He puts the bat in my hand.

I take a couple of practice swings and feel my head spin.

“I’m done,” I tell him.

“Whaddya mean? You quit, you forfeit.”

“I quit, then.”

He snatches the bat from my hand. “Pussy.”

Joan is not home much. She spends a lot of time in the city. Mark says she’s going out with some guy who owns a restaurant, and she hardly ever makes it home for dinner. Sometimes she stays out all night. Occasionally I’ll spot her hurrying from her car with a small travel bag slung over her shoulder. She always looks tired.

It’s too cold outside to shoot baskets, but I hang around at Mark’s house anyway. We watch football, play cards, work out in his basement.

Sunday afternoon we’re up in his room. A freezing rain is falling outside. They say it supposed to turn to snow before dark. We’re playing Monopoly, waiting for a four o'clock playoff game to start. We’re just killing time, but I’m enjoying the game. I haven’t played it in years, but it’s not something you forget how to do.

Mark is buying like crazy: houses, hotels, utilities — everything he lands on. I, on the other hand, have only a single house on Baltic. When I pass GO I collect my two hundred and add it to my stash. I’m filthy with money. I shove it beneath the board in nice even stacks.

As the game progresses I begin landing on Mark’s properties. When I do, he whips a card off his stack and snickers. “Let’s see…with one hotel … that comes to… oh… three and a quarter big ones. Pay up, asshole.”

I hand over the money, and he counts it out while eyeing me like one of those blackjack dealers you see in the movies. Soon, I’m down to my last hundred.

He laughs with delight. “Deadbeat,” he spits out when I’m finally unable to pay.

He agrees to spot me a few bucks so we can continue the game. There’s no way I can catch up. Just like with everything else, he’s better then I’ll ever be. I don’t want to take his money. Why prolong the inevitable?

I hear footsteps on the stairs and look up.

“Hi, guys.” Joan peeks around the door, looks down at the board. “Who’s winning?”

“Who do you think?” Mark mutters.

“Leslie, Leslie…” She shakes her head in disappointment. She’s holding a fistful of hangers, trying not to let anything drag on the floor. The garments are wrapped in blue plastic. She hooks the hangers over the top of the bathroom door and disappears down the hallway.

“Hey man, ya thirsty?” Mark says, getting up.

“I dunno. What d'ya got?”

“Fuckin’ Dom Perignon. What d'ya think?”

“I can go for a Coke.”

When he leaves, I study the board with despair. I want to just flip it over and end my misery. I look over my properties. At least I’ve got one railroad.