The Fan

30

Gil awoke from a forge dream, drenched in sweat. He looked out the front window of the bus, saw the towers of the city in the distance, and a bright blue sky that hurt his eyes. He went back to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, took stock.

He had the clothes he wore, $217.83, an old Kwikpik lottery ticket he didn’t remember buying, and the thrower, on his leg. He’d lost the knapsack full of knives in the darkness. It didn’t matter. He was all set.

Inside the bus station, Gil bought a cup of coffee and had the clerk check his lottery ticket. The clerk ran it through the machine. “Won a free ticket,” he said. “Want to stick with the same number?”

“Forget it,” Gil told him, and walked out.

He followed downtown streets he’d known for years. They seemed unfamiliar. Not new-there was none of the excitement of being in a new place-just strange. He passed Cleats. A sign in the window read: CLOSED TILL FURTHER NOTICE. SPACE FOR RENT. And suddenly Gil knew what was different. For the first time, the city’s impermanence was laid bare to his eyes. It would all soon be gone.

Gil went into a bar near the ballpark. An old bar, dark and grim. Even now, not long before game time, it was almost empty. Gil was hungry. He had a steak sandwich and a slice of deep-dish apple pie. But he drank nothing, not even the water that came with the meal. He had lost his thirst.

The TV over the bar played soundlessly. Gil watched highlights from an old World Series that he remembered well. But the colors were off, the haircuts ridiculous: almost like a satire of the game. The plays had lost their meaning. Would the games they played now be like that in twenty years-so bleached and blurred, compared to his memories?

A truck commercial appeared on the screen, followed by a beer commercial. After that came a reporter, standing in front of the arched Amvets sign at the old ball field; the path under the arch was now barred by a strip of yellow police tape. Then a still picture of Bobby Rayburn appeared, followed by one of Sean, cutting a birthday cake. After that came footage of a body being loaded into an ambulance, and of Jewel Stern ducking into a squad car and driving off; and then his own picture-his company ID photo-with the words “Gilbert Marcel Renard” in big letters underneath. Gil ate the last bite of deep-dish apple pie, paid his bill, adding a ten-dollar tip-the biggest, as a percentage, he had ever given-and left.

The game had already started by the time Gil reached the ballpark. He wore sunglasses and a Sox cap, carried a clipboard, a large cardboard box taped securely shut, and a ballpoint behind his ear. There were cops at the ticket windows and at every gate, and a sniper on the roof of the press box. A man with a radio to his ear hurried by.

“Some doubt about whether Rayburn would play today, Bernie.”

“He’s out there in center field, Norm. And I’ve never seen security this tight at…”

The sound faded. Gil walked around the corner to the unmarked door and knocked.

“Who is it?” called a voice.

“Package for Socko,” Gil replied.

The door opened. The old red-faced man in the red blazer peered out.

“Urgent,” said Gil. “It’s a new foot.”

The old man reached for the cardboard box.

“He’s got to sign for it,” Gil said.

“I can sign.”

“No way. I almost got canned doing that once.”

“But he’s on the field.”

“I’ll wait. He’ll be taking his break at the end of the third inning, won’t he?”

The old man squinted. “You know him?”

“Sure. He gets all his stuff from us.”

“Thought you looked familiar,” the old man said, and he stepped aside to let Gil pass.

The old man closed the door, made sure it was locked, then led Gil down the corridor. As they came to the door of Socko’s dressing room, Gil said, “I’ll just wait in here.”

“Don’t you want to watch while you’re waiting?”

“Baseball’s not my game,” Gil said.

The old man continued down the hall. Gil went into the dressing room, closed the door, laid the package on the dressing table beside the bottles of mineral water. He heard a distant roar. Socko’s dressing room shook all around him.

Time passed. There were a few more roars, more shaking, then quiet. Gil stood against the wall by the door.

It opened. Socko hurried in, tore off his yellow head, made for the dressing table. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank greedily, head tilted up, face bathed in sweat. He had just noticed the package when Gil stepped forward and cut his throat.

Everything took much longer than Gil had imagined: stripping off the Socko costume; getting the body to stay hidden under the dressing table, with no hands or feet slipping out; putting on the costume. Once inside the costume, he strapped the sheath around his right wrist, stuck the thrower inside, and donned the huge three-fingered hand. Then he pulled on the grinning yellow head and went out, almost stumbling over his clodhopper feet.

The old man in the blazer was coming down the corridor. “What’s the matter?” said the old man. “It don’t fit?”

“Fits fine,” Gil said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Where’s the delivery guy?”

“Gone,” Gil said, pointing a cartoon hand toward the exit.

“I’ll just make sure it’s locked,” the old man said, and he kept going.

Gil walked to the end of the corridor, turned up a ramp, and suddenly emerged into blazing daylight, standing in the aisle behind the box seats that fronted the home dugout. It was all perfect, perfect as the first time he’d ever seen it: the red dirt, the green grass, the white lines, the tiny cloud of powder rising from the back of the mound, where the pitcher had just dropped the rosin bag. And the uniformed players, dazzling, like perfect knights. Gil felt dizzy.

“Hey, there’s Socko. Wave to Socko, honey.”

Gil moved down the steps toward the dugout.

“I waved, Ma. Why didn’t Socko wave back?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s working to rule,” said someone else.

And a beery voice from high in the stands called, “Hey, Socko, sit on this.”

Of course, it wasn’t perfect, he had to remember that. It was all fake, the players the most fake of all. Gil climbed onto the dugout, as he had seen Socko do many times. “Hey, Socko, do the jerk.”

Gil scanned the faces-just once, he wouldn’t do that again-and tried to prance around.

“Socko looks like he’s in the bag,” someone said. Laughter spread from row to row.

It was hot inside the costume. The sheath on Gil’s arm was slick with sweat. On the field, Zamora stepped up to the plate, and Lanz came out of the dugout, right under Gil’s clodhopper feet, and moved into the on-deck circle.

Up in the press box, someone said, “Fax for you, Jewel.” A sheet of paper wafted down beside her notebook. It was from the editor at the Times Magazine.

In awe of your adventures last night. You’ve single-handedly raised the status of all us ink-stained wretches. Unfortunately, this really takes Rayburn out of the magazine-profile category and puts him on the front page. Let’s try again on something else, shall we? Kill fee follows.

Jewel balled it up and tossed it back over her shoulder. “What’s that?” said Norm.

“The end of my journalism career.”

“Huh?” said Norm. “What do you call this?”

“Hell if I know,” said Jewel.

Far below, Zamora singled off the third-baseman’s glove, and Lanz moved toward the plate.

“Hey, Socko, you’re stinkin’ up the joint.”

Gil, breathless in the yellow mask, saw Zamora safe at first, heard the voices. He realized he was supposed to celebrate the base hit. Pumping his three-fingered hands in the air, he tried prancing again, but tripped over his clodhopper feet and fell hard on the dugout roof, face down, yellow head hanging over the edge. Laughter rose around him, rolled through the stands.

“Son of a bitch earns his money,” someone said.

Bobby Rayburn came out of the dugout, the top of his batting helmet a foot from Gil’s eyes. Gil froze, right there on the dugout roof, his heart pounding on the cement. Boyle, sitting on the bench, saw his yellow head hanging there and said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

Gil drew back, rolled over, sat up, took a few deep breaths. He gazed out at the field and all its shining colors, and the players, so dazzling. He gazed at Bobby Rayburn in the on-deck circle, swinging that swing, full of grace. Gil rose and walked-no prancing, but walking with dignity-to the home-plate end of the dugout roof.

Lanz laid a surprise bunt down the first-baseline and beat it by a step. Rayburn knocked the lead donut off his bat, knocked the dirt off his spikes, and stepped toward the plate. The fans rose and cheered. The dugout roof trembled with the sound. And even down inside, the voices of his teammates called out, “All right, Bobby.” Bobby kept his head down and stepped into the batter’s box. I’ve made you a hero, Gil thought. He slipped out of the cartoon hands and dropped down off the dugout roof, onto the field. Even through the clodhopper feet, the grass felt special, like the ideal of grass. It made everything that was about to happen right, like a ceremony.

In the press box, Norm said, “What’s with Socko?”

And a VP of something or other said, “That fucker. If he goes up there and plants a kiss on Rayburn, he’s fired. He’s been warned a thousand times about this kind of bullshit.”

Down on the field, Socko kept going. He drew even with the umpire, about twenty feet behind him, turned, and took a step toward the plate.

Jewel rose. “Bobby?” she said. Then she saw Socko’s yellow hands, lying in the grass. She leaned out the open window of the press box, leaned as far as she could. “Bobby,” she called at the top of her lungs. “Bobby.”

Crouched behind the plate, neither the umpire nor the catcher saw Socko. Bobby, digging in, didn’t see him either. Socko broke into a clumsy run. Jewel saw something shine bright in his hand.

“Bobby.”

Down on the field, Bobby’s head shifted. He saw Socko coming, started to turn toward him. The umpire started to turn too, started to raise his hand. Socko, still running forward, drew back his throwing arm.

What happened next was clear only on the slo-mo replay. Socko threw a knife, which spun half a rotation and flew point-first at Bobby’s chest. At almost the same instant, Bobby stuck out his bat, as though he were trying to bunt a high, inside pitch. The blade sank deep into the center of the barrel, slightly below the sweet spot.

Then there was a gunshot crack from the press-box roof, and another from much closer. Socko fell, and cops rushed out of the stands.

Gil didn’t want to think about the implications of what he’d just seen. He wanted to lie in that perfect grass, safe from all the noise and yelling, safe inside the mascot skin. But too soon the yellow head came off, came off with a sweaty popping sound, and as it did his mouth filled with blood. The first thing he saw was Bobby Rayburn looking down at him.

Gil spoke.

“I can’t hear you,” Bobby said.

Gil cleared his throat-it took all of his remaining strength-and tried again. “You’re a bum,” he said.