Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Whos next? Gil on the car phone? Whats shakin, Gil?

Dead air.

Speak, Gil.

Is this

Go on.

Hello?

Youre on the JOC.

Am I on?

Not for long, Gil, the way were going. This is supposed to be entertainment.

Dead air.

Got a question or a comment for us, Gil?

First-time caller.

Fantabulous. Whats on your mind?

Im a little nervous.

Whats to be nervous? Just three million pairs of ears out there, hanging on your every word. Whats the topic?

The Sox.

I like the way you say that.

How do I say it?

Like-what else could it be?

Dead air.

What about the Sox, Gil?

Just that Im psyched, Bernie.

Bernies off today. This is Norm. Everybody gets psyched in the spring. Thats a given in this game. Like ballpark mustard.

This is different.

How?

Dead air.

Gil?

Ive been waiting a long time.

For what?

This year.

Whats special about it?

Its their year.

Why so tentative?

Tentative?

Just pulling your leg. The way you sound so sure. Like its a lead-pipe cinch. The mark of the true-blue fan.

Dead air.

Gil?

Yeah?

The Vegas odds are-what are they, Fred? Fred in the control room there, doing something repulsive with a pastrami on rye-ten to one on the Sox for the pennant, twenty, what is it, twenty-five to one on the whole shebang. Just to give us some perspective on this, Gil, what would you wager at those odds, if you were a wagering man?

Everything I owe.

Owe? Hey. I like this guy. Hes got a sense of humor after all. But, Gil-youre setting yourself up for a season of disillusion, my friend.

Disillusion?

Yeah, like-

I know what disillusion means.

Do you? Then you must-

They went down to the wire last year, didnt they?

Ancient history, Gil.

And now theyve got Rayburn on top of it.

Rayburn, Rayburn. Sheesh. Everybody wants to talk about the Rayburn signing. Hes not the Messiah, good people. Hes not coming down from heaven with a Louisville Slugger raised on high. On Opening Day, hes flying in on the team charter from Orlando, plugged into his Walkman. Puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like you and-

For Christs sake, he-

Cant say that on the air, Gil. And I can cut you off by pressing this little button right here.

Dont. The kids-

What kid? He turns thirty-two in July. Thats middle-aged in this-

-averaging a hundred and twenty-three RBIs for the past three years playing on that piece of-

Watch it-

-dung outfit-can I say dung?

Dungs okay.

-theyve got out there. What kind of numbers is he going to put up in the bandbox, and with that sweet swing of his?

Who knows? Check out the record on free agents, my friend, especially the happy-go-lucky ones taking home the cabbage he signed for. Not so sweet, honeylike swing or not.

Why are you so g-

Dont get ugly, Gil. Come on now. Fess up. You honestly in the bottom of your heart believe hes worth what they shelled out? Answer me that.

Dead air.

Hello? Hello? Lost Gil. Lets go to Donnie, downtown. Youre on JOC-Radio, Donnie, WJOC, fifty thousand nonstop watts of clear-channel sports talk, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Whats shakin?

Gil parked his 325i a block from the office, thinking too late of things he could have said to Bernie, or Norm, or whoever the hell it was. Order book and sample case in hand, he stepped out onto the icy sidewalk as the first snowflakes drifted down around him, hardly bigger than dust motes. It didnt look like the start of a major storm, didnt feel like the beginning of a bad day. Two teenaged boys slouched by, caps pulled low over their eyes. They noticed his license plate-WNSOX-and he heard one say, Yeah, right.

Gil bought a Lottabucks Kwikpik and the Sporting News at the ground-floor newsstand and skimmed the training-camp reports on the elevator. There was a photograph of Rayburn smiling beside the batting cage. The caption read, Banking all those RBI$. Gil folded the paper and slid it into his coat pocket.

Ding. Five. Gil walked down the hall, the floor sticky under his feet. The companys office was next to Prime National Mortage, which had been vacant all winter, and another suite, without lettering on the door, tenantless much longer. He went in. Bridgid was at her desk, unwrapping a bouquet of roses. She pricked her finger, said, Ow, and sucked on it.

Hi, Gil said. Tickets in yet?

The company had season tickets, two box seats halfway down the first baseline, eighteen rows back. The reps divided them according to a complicated formula that was revised every season and this year had alloted Opening Day to Gil.

Have to ask Garrity, said Bridgid. Was there something funny about the way she said it? Funny enough, anyway, to register with Gil in passing.

Gil entered the conference room. Sales meetings began at eight sharp, second Wednesday of the month. They were all sitting around the table-the eleven other Northeast reps, and Garrity, regional sales manager. The room smelled of aftershave. Garritys eyes went from Gil to the wall clock, as though he were willing him to look at it too. Gil looked. 8:04.

He sat down. Figuerido, area six, just west of his, rolled a tube of Lifesavers across the table; the kind with all the flavors. Gil took one-cherry-and rolled them back to Figgy. Breakfast.

Hows the Beamer? Figgy asked in a loud whisper; Figgy was stoked on Gils wheels.

Gil made a hand movement like a car speeding down a winding road and sucked on the Lifesaver, waiting for Garrity to get on with it. Garrity always began with a gloomy summation of how they were doing, followed by an uplifting anecdote from his past about how hed come up off the canvas when all hope was gone and fought his way to victory, hawking vacuum cleaners in Southie or some shit. That was to inspire them before he handed out the new quotas. But Garrity wasnt on commission now, he was management, and management had no idea what it was like out there. That was fact one.

Garritys phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, said Yup. He turned to the door. OMeara walked in. OMeara was the national sales manager. He flew in from Cincinnati once a year, took them all to dinner. But a year wasnt up since his last visit; and it wasnt dinnertime.

Welcome, Keith, Garrity said, rising.

OMeara ignored him. He made a little beckoning motion with his finger-at Waxman, at Larsen, at Figuerido. They followed him from the room. Figgy forgot his Lifesavers on the table.

Bonus time already? someone said. No one laughed. December was bonus time; besides, you had to make quota first, and who was doing that?

Silence until OMeara returned, followed by three people-white males, like Waxman, Larsen, and Figuerido, dressed in $150 suits like Waxman, Larsen, and Figuerido, but not Waxman, Larsen, and Figuerido. OMeara introduced them. They took their places in the empty chairs. The one who sat in Figgys glanced at the Lifesavers but didnt touch them.

OMeara moved to the head of the table. Garrity slid out of his seat. OMeara could have been Garritys upwardly mobile son, better fed and better educated. He put his foot on Garritys chair and leaned over the table. Guys, he said. Ive seen the figures. He paused. Gil smelled someones sweat. Not his: he was cool and dry, not sweating at all. In fact, Gils mind wasnt even on whatever was about to go down. He was remembering an at bat hed had against the Yankees, one he hadnt thought of in years. Man on second-must have been Claymore, Gil could still see him, red hair, freckles-last ups, two strikes, two out, one run down, pitch on the way. He almost felt the sunshine.