Rain Delay
My attempt at short-story writing. Slightly based off of previous experiences. Take a look if you have time.
(By the way, I finished at 7am, right before passing out on the keyboard...so, after I woke up, I deleted the "wv8mq3vt4nq34ffv4hhgt o45tih 34tggggggggggg" from the end)
Rain Delay
Applause suddenly shakes me from my monthly nap. I wipe away the sleep as my mother's firm grip lifts me into the standing ovation-the moment reinforcing the actors' decision to leave a law school future for cereal dinners and adolescent praise. My four-year-old brother's smile reveals his approval for Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's characters and my mother winks down at his ferocious clapping, taking pride in her attempt to acculturate her suburban children. The three of us eventually manage to sneak out the back of the theater, and, using our programs as literary umbrellas, shield the Seattle drizzle while my mother herds us to a quaint pizza parlor.
Fluorescent city lights reflect in the shallow puddles forming along the sidewalk, but dissolve in the ripples with every two-footed stomp from my brother, evoking the motherly routine, "Peter, please don't do that." I remain preoccupied, keeping my gelled hair dry-that 50's-style wave, the center of jealousy among my sixth-grade peers. Those twenty minutes grooming in the bathroom mirror, posing as a twelve-year-old Bobby Darin, helped inspire sweaty handholding at the skating rink earlier that year. Now, I rely on the absorption of the glossy theater program, and constantly look out for any other prepubescent city goers.
We cross to 4th Avenue, known for its diverse cuisine. As we approach our traditional eatery, my mother grabs Peter, who had been skipping ahead of us, and hurries us past a mumbling "street urchin"-the "lazy ones who don't want to work," I'd been told. I glance at the drenched pile of clothing, hunched up against the door of a closed record store. Behind his gray beard, I see dark, wrinkled skin and worn eyes gazing down at the eight pennies clutched in his hands. As we shuffle by, I nearly trip over his shoes, carelessly strewn on the sidewalk, barely clinging to his tired feet. He looks up, silently asking for help with his hypnotic eyes, but the pedestrian traffic carries me along, quickly ushering me into Donatello's Pizzeria.
Immediately, I recognize the fresh tomato and pesto aroma. Sicilian guitar strums over the speakers as we rhythmically waltz to our usual table and shed our soaking layers. Peter giggles at Dali's "funny-looking clocks" on the wall, drooping like the mozzarella from his pizza slice. "Make sure you blot the grease," my mother warns, handing us a stack of napkins. She then tests our attention to the play. "I liked the buried treasure," my brother announces while chewing. "I want to be a pirate when I grow up!" My mother, always so subtle, warns that pirates, too, have to clean up their rooms before finding treasure. "What about you, Alan?" she asks. "Aren't you glad you came too?" I sip my root beer, slowly rotting my teeth as I desperately try to remember Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's plump face from those first few minutes before I slunk back in my seat, dreaming of the skating rink. "I liked the costumes," I manage. "And my cookie tasted good during intermission." She smirks and exacts punishment by embarrassingly wiping pizza sauce from my chin.
We box our leftovers, toss our greasy napkins into the bulging trashcan, and prepare to find the car through the downpour. That sidewalk guardian remains by the record store. This time, however, I hear his faint, incoherent mumble utter, "food, please." I pause, holding extra pepperoni slices boxed under my left arm, and stare back, letting the rain flatten my stylish wave. "Come on, Alan. You're getting soaked," my mother calls back. I wipe the water from my forehead and reluctantly decide to catch up. When I reach them on the corner, I notice Peter's earlier laughter transformed into panicky sobs-his cheese pizza now drowns in the oiled rainbow puddle in the street. Suddenly, ambulance sirens challenge his cries, weaving through traffic, speeding by us. My eyes follow the flashing red, heading toward Donatello's. Through the drizzle, I faintly see the soaked, shaggy man lifted from the sidewalk, pennies clanging on the pavement as the clean-shaven medics elevate his body into the ambulance and speed him down 4th Avenue. I look down at my dripping box of pizza, throw it in a nearby trashcan, and follow my crying brother to the car.
The rain splatters on the windshield as we leave the city, mimicking the syncopated rhythm of the jazz radio station. Peter quietly sleeps in the backseat and my mother hums along with Louis Armstrong-every piercing sustained high note reminding me of the sirens. I warm my hands on the heater, consciously manipulate my thoughts to Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and, with the seatbelt imprinting its woven pattern against my cheek, eventually fall asleep.
I open my eyes the next morning as the sunlight penetrates my baseball-themed blinds, appropriately reminding me of every sixth-grader's call to duty, the chance to be a hero-Saturday morning baseball. I frantically search for my grass-stained uniform, assisted by my mother's constant reminders of my disorganization, and eventually don my pinstripes. Although I adhere to my father's deep-seated hatred for the Bronx Bombers, I grow up associating my Yankee uniform with twelve-year-old unity, and not the million-dollar bullies of American sports.
I arrive at the field, lock my bike on the rusting right-field fence, and join the team. Bobby Gorman, who weighs twice as much as my father, crouches behind home plate, spitting sunflower seeds through his catcher's mask after each warm-up pitch. "Hey Alan, big game today," Bobby's little brother, Aaron, calls over from the stands. I never became close friends with Bobby-mostly because of his intimidating size-but Aaron, although two grades lower, had developed an admiration for me, evidenced by the gel slathered on his flop of hair, desperately trying to control his curls. "Oh yeah," I call back. "It’s a big one."
Apparently, this game determines which team advances to the city championship, and means a much larger plastic trophy for the victors. We practiced all last week-partly contributing to my slumber during last night's play-fielding ground balls, pop ups, bunts, jumping jacks, learning cryptic hand signals, and running laps around the track. With cramped legs, pained arms, and a dust-covered face, I trudged with the team around the practice field-occasionally laughing through my panting at another immature sexual joke-and prepared for this game.
Although the sun continues to break through the clouds, the local news predicts rain later this afternoon. I decide to warm up with Joey Schwartz, the scrawny boy who's lived down my street since he moved from Colorado three years earlier. The two of us would sneak out of the house at night, cautiously make our way to the grocery store to buy candy, and stay up late spilling chocolate crumbs in his backyard under the stars, mapping out our future as astronauts. "Sorry about that, Alan," he calls as the ball sails over my head. By the time I recover the ball, surprised at Joey's distance, Coach Thompson starts rounding up the team. "Bring it in, boys! Let's see some hustle."
We assemble in the dugout, checking the batting order, and, like usual, I'm leading off. I've never hit the ball out of the infield, yet Coach Thompson continues to rely on my ability to hold a steady bat in front of the ball and twelve-year-olds' inability to pick up a slow-moving ground ball and accurately throw to first base. He claps twice and wipes both arms, signaling another bunt. I kick the damp dirt in the batter's box, grip the cold aluminum bat, and wink as the pitcher lofts the first pitch of the game. The sting vibrates through my arms as I make contact, the ball gently rolling down the third base line, and I easily stride to first base.
As I rest on first base, confident I'll be here throughout Joey's predictable strikeout, I analyze the crowd. For a morning game, the stands look compact in the squeaky bleachers. Balding fathers read the newspaper while trying to be a part of their sons' childhood, young mothers control crying babies with a candy bar, overweight siblings drip mustard on their own baseball uniforms, and bleacher-coach fathers call out suggestions, trying to relive their own days of glory.
Joey maintains his reputation and I remain stranded on base for that inning. The game remains close, although it's hard to determine from centerfield. According to Coach Thompson's discriminatory theory, "it makes sense that left-handers should play in the outfield, so they don't have to cross their arms when throwing to first base." I enjoy the position, however, backed by Albertson's Grocery advertisements on the wired fence taunting players to launch three-hundred foot homeruns. Half of our team probably can't even count that high. The grass grows higher out here, soaking my cleats, and smells better than sitting next to Bobby Gorman in the dugout. I call out to Joey in right field, barely recognizing his small, distant figure. We exchange arm gestures until the inning ends, hoping we won't have to handle any erroneous throws from the infield.
The game reaches the final inning and we trail by one run. Once again, with two outs, I sacrifice my left-handed power, putting my Ted Williams dreams to rest, and lay down another bunt. The throw soars wildly past the first basemen, crawling along the right-field fence. I round second base and flop face-first into third, wrapping my arms around the base. Joey wearily steps into the batter’s box as the crowd rises-finishing their hotdogs and newspapers-to watch the possible final out of the game.
The first couple of pitches are high and inside, nearly knocking off Joey's glasses, and eliciting boos and taunts from the crowd. Over the last three innings, both bleachers seem to have taken offense to the other, allowing otherwise prohibited household expletives to ring throughout the stands. Even Coach Thompson's normally subdued behavior seemed to have dissolved in the fifth inning, as he called out, "Hey Ump, get off your knees and stop blowing the game!" The rest of the players and I felt slightly embarrassed, yet amused at our coach's resort to sexual allusions.
The next pitch, however, bounces past the catcher and I sprint home, sliding into a collision of cleats, gloves, and dust. The umpire reluctantly calls me "safe," tying the game and prompting the opposing crowd to rush down to the backstop, while both coaches run out to the umpire, who nervously tries to control the commotion. I dust myself off and stand at a safe distance.
I gaze up from the third-base line, noticing the clouds eclipsing the sunlight, and observe the raindrops starting to pelt the infield dirt. But the arguing continues. Parents angrily rattle the fence-spit and profanity dripping from their furious mouths-and the coaches exchange opinions of the other's mothers. The rain falls harder and the rest of the players come out on the field to watch. Over the shouting, I scarcely detect an ambulance siren off in the distance, and I take off my batting helmet, letting the water run through my gelled hair. The rain starts pouring. We join the other team, asking ourselves, "Can you believe this?" and, one-by-one, each player starts taking off his hat. We assemble around second base-the infield quickly turning to mud-and, stunned at our parents' obliviousness to the collapse of our rivalry, start covering ourselves with the wet earth. The pinstripes are hardly visible. Our faces are hardly visible. Our parents-who have taught us to compete, to avoid laziness and dirtiness-suddenly grow silent. They look out on the field, trying to recognize their children through the dripping mud. And the rain falls harder.
(By the way, I finished at 7am, right before passing out on the keyboard...so, after I woke up, I deleted the "wv8mq3vt4nq34ffv4hhgt o45tih 34tggggggggggg" from the end)
Rain Delay
Applause suddenly shakes me from my monthly nap. I wipe away the sleep as my mother's firm grip lifts me into the standing ovation-the moment reinforcing the actors' decision to leave a law school future for cereal dinners and adolescent praise. My four-year-old brother's smile reveals his approval for Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's characters and my mother winks down at his ferocious clapping, taking pride in her attempt to acculturate her suburban children. The three of us eventually manage to sneak out the back of the theater, and, using our programs as literary umbrellas, shield the Seattle drizzle while my mother herds us to a quaint pizza parlor.
Fluorescent city lights reflect in the shallow puddles forming along the sidewalk, but dissolve in the ripples with every two-footed stomp from my brother, evoking the motherly routine, "Peter, please don't do that." I remain preoccupied, keeping my gelled hair dry-that 50's-style wave, the center of jealousy among my sixth-grade peers. Those twenty minutes grooming in the bathroom mirror, posing as a twelve-year-old Bobby Darin, helped inspire sweaty handholding at the skating rink earlier that year. Now, I rely on the absorption of the glossy theater program, and constantly look out for any other prepubescent city goers.
We cross to 4th Avenue, known for its diverse cuisine. As we approach our traditional eatery, my mother grabs Peter, who had been skipping ahead of us, and hurries us past a mumbling "street urchin"-the "lazy ones who don't want to work," I'd been told. I glance at the drenched pile of clothing, hunched up against the door of a closed record store. Behind his gray beard, I see dark, wrinkled skin and worn eyes gazing down at the eight pennies clutched in his hands. As we shuffle by, I nearly trip over his shoes, carelessly strewn on the sidewalk, barely clinging to his tired feet. He looks up, silently asking for help with his hypnotic eyes, but the pedestrian traffic carries me along, quickly ushering me into Donatello's Pizzeria.
Immediately, I recognize the fresh tomato and pesto aroma. Sicilian guitar strums over the speakers as we rhythmically waltz to our usual table and shed our soaking layers. Peter giggles at Dali's "funny-looking clocks" on the wall, drooping like the mozzarella from his pizza slice. "Make sure you blot the grease," my mother warns, handing us a stack of napkins. She then tests our attention to the play. "I liked the buried treasure," my brother announces while chewing. "I want to be a pirate when I grow up!" My mother, always so subtle, warns that pirates, too, have to clean up their rooms before finding treasure. "What about you, Alan?" she asks. "Aren't you glad you came too?" I sip my root beer, slowly rotting my teeth as I desperately try to remember Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's plump face from those first few minutes before I slunk back in my seat, dreaming of the skating rink. "I liked the costumes," I manage. "And my cookie tasted good during intermission." She smirks and exacts punishment by embarrassingly wiping pizza sauce from my chin.
We box our leftovers, toss our greasy napkins into the bulging trashcan, and prepare to find the car through the downpour. That sidewalk guardian remains by the record store. This time, however, I hear his faint, incoherent mumble utter, "food, please." I pause, holding extra pepperoni slices boxed under my left arm, and stare back, letting the rain flatten my stylish wave. "Come on, Alan. You're getting soaked," my mother calls back. I wipe the water from my forehead and reluctantly decide to catch up. When I reach them on the corner, I notice Peter's earlier laughter transformed into panicky sobs-his cheese pizza now drowns in the oiled rainbow puddle in the street. Suddenly, ambulance sirens challenge his cries, weaving through traffic, speeding by us. My eyes follow the flashing red, heading toward Donatello's. Through the drizzle, I faintly see the soaked, shaggy man lifted from the sidewalk, pennies clanging on the pavement as the clean-shaven medics elevate his body into the ambulance and speed him down 4th Avenue. I look down at my dripping box of pizza, throw it in a nearby trashcan, and follow my crying brother to the car.
The rain splatters on the windshield as we leave the city, mimicking the syncopated rhythm of the jazz radio station. Peter quietly sleeps in the backseat and my mother hums along with Louis Armstrong-every piercing sustained high note reminding me of the sirens. I warm my hands on the heater, consciously manipulate my thoughts to Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and, with the seatbelt imprinting its woven pattern against my cheek, eventually fall asleep.
I open my eyes the next morning as the sunlight penetrates my baseball-themed blinds, appropriately reminding me of every sixth-grader's call to duty, the chance to be a hero-Saturday morning baseball. I frantically search for my grass-stained uniform, assisted by my mother's constant reminders of my disorganization, and eventually don my pinstripes. Although I adhere to my father's deep-seated hatred for the Bronx Bombers, I grow up associating my Yankee uniform with twelve-year-old unity, and not the million-dollar bullies of American sports.
I arrive at the field, lock my bike on the rusting right-field fence, and join the team. Bobby Gorman, who weighs twice as much as my father, crouches behind home plate, spitting sunflower seeds through his catcher's mask after each warm-up pitch. "Hey Alan, big game today," Bobby's little brother, Aaron, calls over from the stands. I never became close friends with Bobby-mostly because of his intimidating size-but Aaron, although two grades lower, had developed an admiration for me, evidenced by the gel slathered on his flop of hair, desperately trying to control his curls. "Oh yeah," I call back. "It’s a big one."
Apparently, this game determines which team advances to the city championship, and means a much larger plastic trophy for the victors. We practiced all last week-partly contributing to my slumber during last night's play-fielding ground balls, pop ups, bunts, jumping jacks, learning cryptic hand signals, and running laps around the track. With cramped legs, pained arms, and a dust-covered face, I trudged with the team around the practice field-occasionally laughing through my panting at another immature sexual joke-and prepared for this game.
Although the sun continues to break through the clouds, the local news predicts rain later this afternoon. I decide to warm up with Joey Schwartz, the scrawny boy who's lived down my street since he moved from Colorado three years earlier. The two of us would sneak out of the house at night, cautiously make our way to the grocery store to buy candy, and stay up late spilling chocolate crumbs in his backyard under the stars, mapping out our future as astronauts. "Sorry about that, Alan," he calls as the ball sails over my head. By the time I recover the ball, surprised at Joey's distance, Coach Thompson starts rounding up the team. "Bring it in, boys! Let's see some hustle."
We assemble in the dugout, checking the batting order, and, like usual, I'm leading off. I've never hit the ball out of the infield, yet Coach Thompson continues to rely on my ability to hold a steady bat in front of the ball and twelve-year-olds' inability to pick up a slow-moving ground ball and accurately throw to first base. He claps twice and wipes both arms, signaling another bunt. I kick the damp dirt in the batter's box, grip the cold aluminum bat, and wink as the pitcher lofts the first pitch of the game. The sting vibrates through my arms as I make contact, the ball gently rolling down the third base line, and I easily stride to first base.
As I rest on first base, confident I'll be here throughout Joey's predictable strikeout, I analyze the crowd. For a morning game, the stands look compact in the squeaky bleachers. Balding fathers read the newspaper while trying to be a part of their sons' childhood, young mothers control crying babies with a candy bar, overweight siblings drip mustard on their own baseball uniforms, and bleacher-coach fathers call out suggestions, trying to relive their own days of glory.
Joey maintains his reputation and I remain stranded on base for that inning. The game remains close, although it's hard to determine from centerfield. According to Coach Thompson's discriminatory theory, "it makes sense that left-handers should play in the outfield, so they don't have to cross their arms when throwing to first base." I enjoy the position, however, backed by Albertson's Grocery advertisements on the wired fence taunting players to launch three-hundred foot homeruns. Half of our team probably can't even count that high. The grass grows higher out here, soaking my cleats, and smells better than sitting next to Bobby Gorman in the dugout. I call out to Joey in right field, barely recognizing his small, distant figure. We exchange arm gestures until the inning ends, hoping we won't have to handle any erroneous throws from the infield.
The game reaches the final inning and we trail by one run. Once again, with two outs, I sacrifice my left-handed power, putting my Ted Williams dreams to rest, and lay down another bunt. The throw soars wildly past the first basemen, crawling along the right-field fence. I round second base and flop face-first into third, wrapping my arms around the base. Joey wearily steps into the batter’s box as the crowd rises-finishing their hotdogs and newspapers-to watch the possible final out of the game.
The first couple of pitches are high and inside, nearly knocking off Joey's glasses, and eliciting boos and taunts from the crowd. Over the last three innings, both bleachers seem to have taken offense to the other, allowing otherwise prohibited household expletives to ring throughout the stands. Even Coach Thompson's normally subdued behavior seemed to have dissolved in the fifth inning, as he called out, "Hey Ump, get off your knees and stop blowing the game!" The rest of the players and I felt slightly embarrassed, yet amused at our coach's resort to sexual allusions.
The next pitch, however, bounces past the catcher and I sprint home, sliding into a collision of cleats, gloves, and dust. The umpire reluctantly calls me "safe," tying the game and prompting the opposing crowd to rush down to the backstop, while both coaches run out to the umpire, who nervously tries to control the commotion. I dust myself off and stand at a safe distance.
I gaze up from the third-base line, noticing the clouds eclipsing the sunlight, and observe the raindrops starting to pelt the infield dirt. But the arguing continues. Parents angrily rattle the fence-spit and profanity dripping from their furious mouths-and the coaches exchange opinions of the other's mothers. The rain falls harder and the rest of the players come out on the field to watch. Over the shouting, I scarcely detect an ambulance siren off in the distance, and I take off my batting helmet, letting the water run through my gelled hair. The rain starts pouring. We join the other team, asking ourselves, "Can you believe this?" and, one-by-one, each player starts taking off his hat. We assemble around second base-the infield quickly turning to mud-and, stunned at our parents' obliviousness to the collapse of our rivalry, start covering ourselves with the wet earth. The pinstripes are hardly visible. Our faces are hardly visible. Our parents-who have taught us to compete, to avoid laziness and dirtiness-suddenly grow silent. They look out on the field, trying to recognize their children through the dripping mud. And the rain falls harder.