Charlie

Charlie worked at the coffee bar at Yahoo. Man those were the days… that stuff was free! We were a bunch of highly-caffeinated Yahoos back in the day.

He was a young guy, about 20 if that. Loved baseball, and claimed to be a player way, way down in the Indians system in rookie ball or something. A catcher if I recall, sidelined by a forearm injury. I didn’t press him for details. He talked a good game, made a good Asian Iced Espresso.

And one Friday while waiting for him to prepare my drink I mentioned that I had nothing to do that weekend.

“You wanna hang out?” he asked.

Uh… what?

“You wanna hang out tonight? Go to the West End or something?”

Damn. There I was, having made it quite clear that there was no way in hell I had a conflict that night, and Charlie wanted to hang out. So, with a shrug, I said sure.

***

Quittin’ time rolled around, and he said we’d leave as soon as his girlfriend showed up. Fine, fine. Yahoo had, they claimed, one of the fastest internet connections “in the world” in that building. I rarely lacked things to do to kill time.

But the minutes kept ticking by, and Girlfriend was nowhere to be seen. I tried not to be antsy, but hell, I was hungry. She was caught in traffic, or on the way, or she just called.

She showed up about an hour after my shift ended, if I recall. I was trying to remain game. We made our introductions, said some nice words and set out.

She sported the classic Pentecostal/non-denominational look, what with the faded, shin-length denim skirt, lack of makeup, and hair that I suppose had never been cut. She was pleasant enough.

***

We gravitated to this big building in the West End. I don’t know what it’s called, but if you’ve ever been there you probably know the one. It’s a few stories tall, got a number of shops tucked in it: a candy store, a funky antiques place, that kind of thing. Overpriced tourist claptrap, sure, but an okay place to walk around and kill a few minutes I guess.

Charlie wanted to hit the game room. Hmm. Okay. He got a bunch of coins (or tokens) and disappeared into the dark, noisy room with Girlfriend while I wandered around, a man completely out of his context. I was 32 years old. Frogger? Tempest? No, none of the old-school games I used to play were to be found. I walked around starting to finally accept that this had all been a mistake, a footnote in my life at best.

He finally wrapped up, and he and Girlfriend suggested we walk over to Spaghetti Warehouse for dinner. Fine.

***

Being one person sitting opposite those two at the table was uncomfortable, but what the heck—food was coming. I could hang in there.

Then he blurted out that Girlfriend was pregnant.

Awkward… “Hey, congratulations!” I managed to sputter.

Then he blurted out that he was in the process of joining the army.

Awkward again… “Well, great!” I said.

Unwed, hardly any money, kid coming, one headed off for parts unknown, dressed in olive drab duds…

We forged ahead.

***

The food took a long time to come, of course. And I say of course, because, well, as awkward as the whole evening had been, it just wouldn’t have been RIGHT, somehow, if things had zipped along and we’d been in and out of there in a reasonable amount of time, right? That’s just how it works.

So the longer we sat there, the longer I got to hear Charlie and Girlfriend talk breathlessly about their hopes, their future together. They talked about how Charlie was a man of faith, and had wanted to be a preacher before something changed his mind (what, I can’t recall). The kid was enthusiastic, charismatic… not a stretch to see him in that line of work.

Then the food came. The clouds did not part, the angels did not blow their trumpets, and no beam of light shone down upon my thankful head.

But Girlfriend asked, “Do you pray?”

Hoo boy.

Um… well SURE, sure… but not, uh…

“Would you lead us in a prayer?”

No no no. Ya’ll go ahead. Please.

Either you’re comfortable with this or you’re not, period. I am not. But at the very least, I can bow my head out of respect. And to avoid the eyes of all the people I feel must surely be watching.

“Dear Lord,” said Charlie, and you can fill in the rest of it with the usual stuff, I’d say.

To a point.

Yes, he thanked God for their time with me, sure. Flattering, a nice gesture, all that.

Then he apologized to God for masturbating.

“And please forgive all the whackin’ off…”

Oh YES he said it. He really said it. I started playing back the tape in my head, eyes shut tight, suddenly in Bizarro World as Charlie blessed my pasta dish with an apology for pleasuring himself.

I began to pray too: Dear Lord, take me NOW. Yes, kill me. Right here in the Spaghetti Warehouse. Just take me now if you would oh DEAR GOD.

***

The prayer eventually ended, and we had our meal without incident. The evening passed mostly without incident from there on out, save for the walk back to the car. Charlie bumped into someone, and as they walked away he started shouting, “F*ck me?? F*CK ME??? No, f*ck YOU! F*CK YOU!!”

I didn’t get a look at the person he bumped. It was crowded, and I was making a beeline for, well, anywhere else. Girlfriend restrained him, I kept walking, and that, my friends, was that.

***

In fact, it really WAS. I only saw Charlie once more after that. It rained the following Monday. I spotted him in the parking lot, jumping a puddle. He was not working at the coffee bar that day.

The next day a new guy was there, in fact. Word had it Charlie was in the army, headed off to boot camp.

***

This was maybe six months prior to 9/11. I wonder what happened to Charlie, Girlfriend, and the child they conceived.

***

Okay, Tarrant County College has done it again. Henry Gray played there yesterday, and I missed it. It’s only a couple miles from the house. Heck, it’s the place I jogged Sunday.

Earlier this year they had David “Honeyboy” Edwards out there, and I missed that too.

I’ve emailed their head of special events to see if there’s a mailing list or something I can get on.

***

The Smoking Gun says that evidence of widespread methamphetamine use in baseball emerged while they investigated the Raffy Palmeiro perjury issue. They questioned former Rangers trainer Danny Wheat, who said he once asked a player how many of the nine on the field were on “greenies” in a particular game. The answer: eight of nine.

Can this be real? I watch these games all the dang time. Speed users exhibit some pretty distinctive symptoms, and it doesn’t take special training to spot them. Heck, these guys give press conferences after the games. I’d think someone on speed would be pretty easy to pick out with a mic in their face. Something’s fishy here.

***

Better go. Happy Friday, ya’ll.