The Heckler

              I swear to the baseball gods this is a true story. It was early in the new millennium, post-9/11, but pre-Obama, and my good friend Damian and I, as we often found ourselves doing in those days, decided to attend a baseball game in downtown Buffalo, New York. Buffalo, which at one point in the 1800’s was the second largest city in the United States, hasn’t seen a major league team since 1915, when the Buffalo Blues (also known as the BufFeds) called the then prosperous city their home. On several occasions Buffalo tried to lure a Major League club to their fair city with no success, though since 1979 they have supported a thriving minor league team, the Buffalo Bisons, who at the time of this story, was the AAA affiliate to the Cleveland Indians (they have since switched affiliates, first to the New York Mets, and most recently, the Toronto Blue Jays). A quick side note of interest: though the Buffalos Blues found little success in the short lived Federal League, they did have a player named Ed Porray on their roster, who has the strange honor of being the only Major League Baseball player in history whose birthplace is not a place in a traditional sense, but rather noted as “on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.” Anyway, enough about history, back to the story…

            Dunn Tire Park (since renamed Coca-Cola Field) felt nearly empty that night, as many minor league stadiums do during weekday games. Our seats were down the third base line, past the dugout, a dozen or so rows above the left field grass. I don’t even remember who the Bisons were playing that night, and it doesn’t really matter, because this story isn’t about the game. It’s about the heckler who was sitting about thirty feet in front of us, in the row of seats closest to the field. He had to be in his late twenties, early thirties, and was wearing the Buffalo Sabers jersey of Vaclav Varada, a Czechoslavakian winger who was popular among fans in the late-90’s (not the classic jersey with the crossed swords and charging buffalo that is undeniably one of the greatest logos in the history of sports, or the yellow snail that is undeniably one of the most horrendous, but rather the severed buffalo head from when the franchise made the incomprehensible decision to not only change their design but also the teams entire color scheme). Anyway, enough about jerseys, back to the story…

            As soon as the game started Varada (the heckler, not the athlete) began laying into the left fielder. Now, it’s not out of the ordinary for fans to heckle baseball players from the visiting team, but this guy took heckling to an entirely new extreme. Ordinarily, heckles can be as simple as “You suck!,” clever, like “Hurry and get to the ball Cinderella!” slightly insulting, “You play baseball like a girl!” (Authors Note: personally, I don’t believe there is anything wrong with girls playing baseball. In fact, I encourage all females to pursue whichever athletics they desire.) or, more specific to minor league games, discouraging, “You’ll never make it to the majors playing like that!” But Varada was no ordinary heckler. He seemed to have been summoned from the depths of heckling hell for one sole reason: to make certain the visiting left fielder had a miserable evening. “You’re a child molester!” he yelled at the poor guy. “You like taking little boys into the woods and raping them!” All the other fans in listening distance began looking around at one another, thinking Is this guy for real? Mothers scurried up their children, pressing their hands over their little ears, as they led them to other parts of the stadium, to seats that were out of Varada’s shouting range. Before we knew it, all the other fans in the area were gone, leaving only Varada, a couple of his buddies, who never once attempted to quiet their friend down, and Damian and I. And since we were the only fans left in the vicinity, Varada suddenly felt that we were there to watch him and not the ball game. Every time he yelled an utterly inappropriate remark he would turn around to us and smile, as if we were granting him approval simply by not changing seats. And just when we thought the words coming out of his mouth couldn’t possibly get any more inappropriate…

            Imagine there’s a locker room, and the team inside that locker room are engaging in “locker room talk,” and that team consists of Donald Trump, Billy Bush, Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton, Andrew Dice Clay, Michael Jackson, Jared from Subway, Cartman from South Park, The Jerky Boys from the 90’s, and every other foul mouthed celebrity, rapist, child molester, and degenerate you can think of. Imagine the things that would be coming out of their mouths. That’s what Varada sounded like for a solid nine innings. Things I would never repeat in person, let alone on this page. And at the end of the game, when the Bisons won, Varada celebrated as if he was the sole reason for victory. As if his nine innings of spewing oral diarrhea was the deciding factor in the game. But I’ll tell you what, that left fielder played a hell of a game, never once letting Varada get to his psyche; no errors, and if I remember correctly, he even had a couple of solid hits. You have to give the guy credit, I mean, in what other profession would anyone have to tolerate such abuse. Could you imagine going to your job and having some douche bag accuse you of molesting children for the entirety of your work day? 

            And that was the game in which I finally understood why baseball players get paid so much money.

Name-Droppin'

           Oh, yes, I remember that night well. That was the night I took Hannah Montana home. Not the Hannah Montana, of course, but the actress who played her on television, you know, the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart’s daughter. 

           I was in Kansas City, Kansas—not to be mistaken with the much larger and much more pretentious Kansas City, Missouri, just across the state line—enjoying a drink at a bar called “The Hitching Post.” Or was it “The Hole in the Wall”? Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I was on my third, or was it my fifth, bottle of Schlitz when that son of a bitch walked through the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, what the hell was he doing in a place like this?  

            I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, how could he? We were a thousand or more miles from our hometown. I was twenty years older and a hundred pounds lighter than the last time we had seen each other at our high school graduation. There was no way he was going to recognize me. And then I heard those words: “Pat Walcock? “Fat” Pat Walcock, is that you?”

            I turned my head to find Jordan Prescott saddled right up next to my stool. And damn if he didn’t look great. He was the star quarterback/homecoming king/class president/ prom king of our senior class, and somehow, in the two decades since I’d seen him last, he had gotten taller, more muscular, his teeth whiter, his skin tanner, and hair thicker. “Pat Walcock—that is you!”

            “Jordan Prescott,” I said as he clasped my hand firmly and gave it a good shake, “how’ve you been.”

            “Great,” he replied. “No. Never mind. Better than great. How about you?”

            “Never been better.”

            “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. “Please, let me buy you a drink.”

            “No. Let me buy you a drink. I insist.”

            “Thanks.” He waved the bartender over. “I’ll have two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue Label, neat, please.”

            Fingers? Neat? I didn’t know what any of that even meant, but I played along like I did. “Make that two,” I said.

            The bartender poured us our drinks and set them down in front of us. When he said, “That’ll be a hundred dollars,” I nearly choked on my drink. I nonchalantly slid my debit card across the bar, knowing that I had just spent one-fifth of all the money I had.

            “So what the hell are you doing in Kansas City?” Jordan wanted to know.

            I couldn’t admit that I lived here now, with my mother, in a trailer park, so I quickly turned the question on him. “I was about to ask you the same damn question.”

            “Business,” he said. “My firm is buying up a bunch of small businesses, mostly to liquidate inventory, layoff employees, and use the losses for tax write-off purposes.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “And you?”

            “Also business,” I replied.

            “Oh yeah, what kind of business are you in?”

            I needed to come up with something quick. I shifted my eyes around the room until they landed on an old television sitting in the corner. On it, an old movie from the 90’s was playing: To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything, something something… “I’m in the film industry,” I said. “I’m actually here scouting out locations for a new movie.”

            “Really? Wow! That’s absolutely fascinating. What’s the movie about? Who’s going to be in it? Anybody I’ve heard of?”

            I couldn’t believe it! Jordan Prescott—the Jordan Prescott—was intrigued by me. “Ever heard of Mark Ruffalo?”

            “Mark Ruffalo? Of course I’ve heard of Mark Ruffalo.”

            “Well, he’s playing a down on his luck guy in Kansas City. Lives in a trailer park. With his mother.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “What happens? What’s the plot?”

            “He runs into an old adversary at a bar and…well, I don’t want to give anything away.”

            “What’s it called?”

            “Ruffalo’s Revenge.”

            “Wait a second. Mark Ruffalo is starring in a movie called Ruffalo’s Revenge?”

            “It’s meta.”

            A confused, suspicious look took over Jordan’s face. “So, you know a lot of movie stars, do you?”

“Don’t know if I would use the words “a lot,” but yeah, I get around. Lifted weights with Lou Ferrigno last week, if that tells you anything.”

Jordan’s look of suspicion immediately morphed into a fierce look of competition. “So, dig this,” he said, “I played golf with John Stamos a couple of months ago. He’s an old friend of one of the firm’s partners. Shoots a seven handicap.”

            “Oh yeah,” I replied. “I sold weed to Patrick Duffy once.”

            Suddenly, it was on.

            “I had dinner with Maria Shriver.”

            “I did cocaine with Courtney Love.”

            “Went bowling with David Hasselhoff.”

            “Played euchre with Bob Ueker.”

            By this point it didn’t even matter who was saying what.

            “Went six rounds with Mickey Rourke.”

            “Rode on a rollercoaster next to Mark Paul Gosselaar.”

            “Did improve with Parker Posey.”

            “Rode a tandem bicycle with the bassist from Bel Biv DeVoe.”

            “Roller-skated with the guy who played “Bull” on Night Court.”

            “Roller-bladed with Patrick Swayze’s brother, Don.”

            “Went skydiving with two-thirds of Tony Toni Tone.”

            “Played catch with Donovan McNabb.”

            “Threw a Frisbee with Don Cheadle.”

            “Played Twister with the Olsen Twins.”

            “Oh yeah, well, I fucked Hannah Montana!”

            And that was the one that left Jordan speechless. After finishing his two fingers of Johnny Walker, he finally found some words. “You’re going to stand there and tell me that you fucked Hannah Montana? The daughter of the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart?”

            “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

            “Prove it.”

            “Prove it?” I laughed. “Now, how the hell can I prove it?”

            “She just walked through the door.”

            I turned my head and couldn’t believe my eyes: Hannah fucking Montana had just walked through the door. What were the fucking chances? Well, I did the only thing a man could do in this situation: I finished my two fingers of Johnny Walker, slammed the glass on the bar, and walked across the room towards her. I did have a reputation to keep after all. As I got within a few feet of her, I realized that she wasn’t Hannah Montana after all, but rather just some buck toothed girl with a boy’s haircut. I quickly recognized that from a distance, most of the girls in the bar— and most of the girls in Kansas City, Kansas for that matter — looked strikingly similar to Hannah Montana. “Excuse me,” I said to the Hannah Montana lookalike, “this might seem like a strange request, but I will give you two-hundred dollars if you simply smile, grab my hand, and walk out of this bar with me right now. After we get outside, you can go wherever you want. You’ll never see me again.”

            “Is this a joke?”

            “No joke. Just trying to win a friendly bet with my friend across the room.” I turned around and waved at Jordan.

            “I’ll do it for four-hundred.”

            “There’s an ATM next door,” I said as I led her out the front door.

            I withdrew the last four hundred dollars to my name and handed it to the girl before she disappeared into the night. I was flat broke, but it didn’t matter, because for the rest of his life, even though chances were that I’d never see him again, Jordan Prescott would believe that “Fat” Pat Walcock was a better man than he, and you can’t put a price tag on something like that.

           

           

           

            

Not the Best Time to be a Clown

            Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Hilario the Clown’s smile widened as she practiced her laugh in the bathroom mirror. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! She finished rubbing white makeup onto her chin, placed a red ball over her nose, and covered her blond hair with a rainbow covered wig. Satisfied with her appearance, she smiled again, shook her cheeks, widened her eyes, and let out one last laugh. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe!

            BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Whitey Oldman pulled the trigger on his Glock 19 in rapid succession. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! After the last bullet exited the chamber, he pressed a small button on the left hand side of his booth and waited as a cable hooked to a pulley brought a target to him. He unclipped the piece of paper and studied the black ink, gently rubbing his index finger over the eight small holes clustered in the center of the figure’s chest. Satisfied with his accuracy, he clipped a fresh target to the pulley and sent it down the range. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

            “Are you excited?”

            Hilario the Clown smiled at her husband, who was holding their four year old daughter in his arms. “Of course I’m excited! This is the first paying gig I’ve had in a month. I mean, imagine if police officers were out scaring people all over the country and everyone was afraid to hire you!”

            “Well dear, I don’t know if that’s the best analogy…”

            “Oh, you know what I’m saying. At least you still get to do what you’re passionate about and get a paycheck at the end of the week. I mean, put yourself in my shoes.”

            He looked down at a pair of red shoes that were large enough to fit an NBA player, which caused them both to laugh. “You really should take those off before you drive.”

           

            “Did you hear what The Times reported this morning?” Big Don sipped his coffee as Whitey Oldman meticulously folded his paper targets.

            “I don’t even want to know. I mean what the hell has this country come to? A nigger president for eight years, and now these kids want to elect a goddamn woman? A lying, cheating, no-good, crooked criminal, I might add. She should be in jail, for Christ’s sakes.”

            “You’re preaching to the choir, pal. We got spics flooding across the border, Muslims terrorizing our communities, jobs being shipped overseas, and when somebody finally stands up to do something about it, the media makes up all these lies about the guy. What is a man to do in these crazy times?”

            “Well, at least I can still come to your gun range to let off some steam.”

            “For now…we’ll see what happens to the second amendment if that whore gets elected. Let’s just say, you better start stocking up on bullets.”

            “Speaking of which,” Whitey Oldman reached for his wallet. “Why don’t you give me a couple boxes of hollow points.”

            Hilario tried her best to ignore the unfavorable looks she received as she drove her Volkswagen Beetle clown car through the city. She missed the good old days, when people would wave and smile and she would honk her horn which released a silly sound that wasn’t far from the laugh she had perfected through years of practice. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Now she just focused on the road and listened to the oldies station on the radio, taking note of the irony as Smokey Robinson’s “The Tears of Clown,” sifted through the speakers: “♪ Well they’re some sad things know to man, But aint too much sadder than, The tears of a clown when no one’s around… ♫”

            Whitey Oldman listened to his favorite conservative radio personality, Greg Gregory, as he fought traffic in his Ford F-350: “…if this presidential election is a circus, then the Democratic nominee is most certainly the clown! And speaking of clowns, have you heard about all these clowns terrorizing American’s across the nation?” One of Whitey’s favorite things about Greg Gregory was his ability to segue from one topic to another. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Gregory continued, “if I ever found myself in the vicinity of one of these clowns, if one of these clowns thought about terrorizing my neighborhood, well, let’s just say, I would take full advantage of my constitutional rights, and speaking of the constitution, when I want to practice my second amendment right, there is only one place I will go and that’s Big Don’s Shooting Range, located directly across from…”

            Hilario drove around the block three times but couldn’t find a single spot to park her clown car. She finally found a spot four blocks away from the birthday party where she was to entertain two dozen children for the next hour or so. She parked, slipped her giant red shoes back on, grabbed her suitcase full of gags, and began to walk down the sidewalk.

            As Whitey Oldman swung a right down the street he had called home for the past four decades, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said to himself as he slammed on the brakes and put his truck in park. He quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and nearly fell out of the driver’s seat as he reached into the inside of his jacket.

            Hilario the Clown dropped her suitcase and threw her hands in the air as she saw a large, obese man, with what appeared to be a weapon in his hand, walking her way.

            Whitey Oldman stopped in his tracks and raised his Glock 19. “Not in my neighborhood,” he said as he pulled the trigger…

           

Sounds of the Road

           White lines. Yellow lines. No lines. I follow the roads west. West! Down highways, byways, and thoroughfares. West! Down frontage roads, forgotten routes, and small town Main Streets. West! The most optimistic of all directions. West! Because that’s where the sun sets. Where stars are born. Where rebels, jokers, wildcards, and misfits search for a bigger, brighter, and bolder tomorrow. West! Into the glare. Against the wind. Towards the unknown. West! Because, where else is there to go?

            I’m searching for something. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe peace? Maybe quiet? Maybe peace and quiet. And I take to the roads to find it. Always skirting the cities when I can. I stay away from those racket factories, with their squeals and screeches and crashers and clamor. Those noise machines, with their rattles and rumbles and clinkers and clanks. Those quiet killers, who are persistently polluting the air with their blasts and bangs and bursts and blows…

            And so, I stick to the country roads, rural and empty, oftentimes forgotten, the lonelier the better. I ride through a land they call Montana, where the sky is big, and the mountains tear out of the earth, sharp and jagged, like sharks’ teeth. I can see them in the distance, a day away, the sun sinking behind their crooked peaks. But for now, the land is flat, as flat as land can be. And I pedal hard, with rock n roll rhythms streaming through the small speakers tucked in close to the drums of my ears. When I’m lucky, classic road tunes dance across the air waves. “Born to Run,” “Bat out of Hell,” “Radar Love.” But as I travel further from civilization, the stations fade, and so I scan and sometimes find a country station with just the right twang and the perfect Western lyrics that epitomize rubber “on the road again. I just can’t wait to get on the road again…”

But out here, way out here, in the desolate flatlands, badlands, of nowhere America, even the country stations come to an end, leaving me only with local talk, a man selling a refrigerator over the airwaves, a woman hoping to trade a washing machine for a dishwasher. A dry voice tells me that the prices of soy are down, but the prices of beef are up, which makes my mind wander to a simpler place where one farmer is cursing and kicking dust while another is smiling from ear to ear as he drives a bolt into the head of an unsuspecting steer…

And speaking of steer, they line the roads, dozens upon dozens, and perfect timing, because my radio loses all signals, and I find entertainment in screaming at the top of my lungs. STAMPEDE!!! And the cows take notice. They obey my orders. They run at my side. The only thing between me and them, three strands of wire, barbed, nine-gauged and streaming with electricity. A hundred or more hooves hitting the ground in unison, causing the Earth to tremble, creating a minor earthquake that only I can feel. Rumble! Rattle! Shake! Sometimes we need to make our own rock n roll…

But the field comes to an end and thus does my fun. No more cows to keep me company, no more stampedes to satisfy my soul. So I ride and I listen, to the  c-c-c-c-c-c-clanking of the chain, until my back wheel begins to drag and hiss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s. “Fuck!” A flat. I pull off to the side of the road only to realize there is no sound. Nothing. Not a peep. I have finally found my peace and quiet, which suddenly scares the hell out of me. Because there can’t be nothing. There’s always something. Listen! It’s the wind gently blowing, rustling the rye in the fields. But then the wind dies down and again, nothing. And the fear returns. But then I remember to breathe, which I can barely hear, but it’s there, until I decide to hold my breath…

Is this what peace and quiet sounds like? But it’s not entirely quiet. It’s not. I can hear something in my chest. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. And in this instance I realize that there is no such thing as pure silence. There is no such thing as quiet. Half of what I thought I was looking for doesn’t even exist. But the other half! The other half is more than real. The other half has infiltrated every bone in my body. Every molecule in my mind. Never have I found more peace in a single moment.