Pascoe and Martinez came to visit me at Vancouver General Hospital the day after I picked up forty-one stitches from running through the glass wall next to the front door of my girlfriend’s apartment building.
Pascoe is black, but beside Martinez he looks gray. Martinez is new to the team; his home is in the Dominican Republic; he comes from that famous town where they have a factory that turns out iron-armed shortstops who gobble up ground balls like they were Pac-Man. Martinez speaks only about ten words of English, so he’s happy to have anybody pay any attention to him. He has worried brown eyes and is so black his round cheeks and wide forehead give off a glare in bright sunlight. Martinez doesn’t know he’s getting himself in the manager’s bad books, making himself an outcast by hanging around with me. Pascoe does.
My name is Barry McMartin. Reporters describe me as the Vancouver Canadians’ designated flake. The team bad boy. A troublemaker. Most of my teammates don’t like me very much, in fact most are a little afraid of me. Some of them think I’m on drugs. There’s more than the usual hassle about athletes and drugs in these post–Len Bias days. But I’ve never done drugs. I have some common sense, even if most people tend to think the amount I have is minimal.
At the hospital, Pascoe stuck his head around the doorjamb and when he saw me he said, “How the hell did you get all the way to Triple A on one fucking brain cell?”
I smiled, though it hurt like hell. Nine of those stitches were in my hairline. Martinez grinned his greeting, showing off his white eyes and teeth. He said something in Spanish, ending by clapping his hands once and doing a little dance step. I assume he was wishing me well.
“How long will you be out of action this time?” Pascoe asked. He is our first baseman. This is his third year in Triple A, and he’s not likely to go any higher. He is six foot seven and shaves his head to resemble Otis Sistrunk, the football player; he looks mean as a boil, but one of the reasons he’s never had a shot at the Bigs is that he lacks the killer instinct. He plays an average first base, but for such a big man he has only warning-track power as a hitter.
“Management put me on the fifteen-day disabled list. I’ll be ready to go in less than that. The doctors said I was real lucky. ‘You are very lucky you’re not dead,’ is what the doctor in emergency said to me as he was sewing up my cuts. ‘A couple of guys get killed every month by doing what you did tonight. You must have a guardian angel; it’s a miracle you didn’t permanently disable yourself. You’ll be back playing baseball inside of two weeks.’”
I pulled up my hospital gown and showed the guys the rest of my stitches. The cuts made a primitive mark of Zorro on my chest. None were deep, not even close to a tendon or a vital artery. What did scare me almost to death at the time was that a shard of glass clipped off the tip of my right earlobe and I bled like a stuck pig. When I recovered my senses, I was lying in a pool of blood and broken glass in the entranceway to Judy’s apartment building. I thought I was a goner for sure.
“Well, what are we gonna do to cheer our friend up, Marty?” Pascoe says, with a smile that goes halfway to his ears.
“Si,” says Martinez.
“Tell me a joke,” I say.
“We know he can’t play baseball, lady. We want to use him for second base,” says Pascoe, and we both break up, while Martinez watches us, mystified. My laughter lasts only a few seconds before pain from my stitches brings me up short.
One night last season, soon after I became Pascoe’s roommate, we stayed up all night telling jokes. We were sitting in a twenty-four-hour café called the Knight & Day, and we just kept drinking coffee and telling stories until the sun came up. We both agreed that we’d told every joke, clean or dirty, that we both knew. And as we got to know each other better we decided that instead of retelling a whole story we’d just shout out the punchline. We both knew the joke so we could both laugh. To give an example, there’s a long shaggy-dog story about a white man trying to prove himself to the Indian tribe he’s living with. The Indians give him a list of acts to perform that will establish his courage. When he comes back to camp looking happy but torn to rat shit, one of the Indians says to him, “You were supposed to kill the bear and make love to the woman.” So now instead of retelling that story we just shout out the punchline and both of us, and anyone else who knows the story, have a good laugh. But it stymies some of the other players and doesn’t go over well when we’re out on dates.
“The trouble was the pilot was gay,” I say, and this time Martinez laughs along.
Martinez is so congenial we are genuinely trying to teach him English. Not like some of the Spanish-speaking players. We’ve been known to take them to restaurants and have them say to the waitress, thinking that they’re ordering a hamburger, “I’d like to eat your pussy, please.”
“What did management have to say?” Pascoe asks, changing the subject. There is genuine concern on his face.
“When you get to my balls try to act as if nothing unusual is happening,” I reply. That’s a punchline from a joke about Sonny Crockett going undercover, dressed as a woman. “Hey, the nurses here are terrific, there was this one last night pulled the screen close around my bed . . .”
“I’m serious,” says Pascoe.
“So am I.”
“Goddamnit, Barr. How much trouble are you in?”
“Well, Skip didn’t come down. As you know, Skip hates my guts. Skip wanted to fire my ass. Or so says Osterman. But I’m too valuable for them to do that. Milwaukee’s going to call me up inside of a month—see if they don’t. So it was Old Springs came down himself.”
Springs is what we call Osterman, the general manager of the baseball team. He is one of these dynamic guys who walks like he’s got springs in his shoes, and he’s read all these inspirational books like How to Fuck Your Friends, Rip Off Your Neighbors, and Make a Million by Age 30. He’s always talking to us ballplayers about long-term investments, five-year plans, and networking.
“You’re an asshole, McMartin,” he said to me. “You’re a fuck-up, you’re an asshole, you’re a jerk. You’re also a criminal. If it wasn’t for baseball, your ass would be in jail in some town out in the Oklahoma desert, or you’d be in a psych hospital, which is where I think you belong. Skip said he’d personally kill you if he visited you himself. So he sent me. For some reason he figures I have more self-control. Skip says to tell you he wishes you’d cut your troublemaking throat when you fell through that window, or whatever you did.”
“Yeah, well, you tell Skip his wife’s not bad in bed. But she’s not nearly as good as your wife.”
I was sorry as soon as the words were out. I knew I’d gone too far, again. I don’t really want these guys to hate me. I just want to make it clear that I don’t take shit from anybody.
“You really are pure filth, McMartin,” Springs growls. “The front office personnel voted unanimously not to send you flowers or wish you a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, in Milwaukee they don’t know what an asshole you are; they think you might be able to hit thirty home runs for them next year. They’d let fucking Charles Manson bat cleanup if they thought he’d hit thirty homers. But just let me remind you, the minimum wage in Oklahoma is about three-fifty an hour, and out of a baseball uniform you’re not even worth that.”
“Try to imagine how little I care,” I said.
“We’re going to tell the press you were being chased out of the apartment by an angry husband,” said Springs. “It will fit your image and make you look less like a fool. But let me tell you, Milwaukee is fed up with your antics, too. This is absolutely the last time.”
“Did management suspend you, or what?” asks Pascoe.
“Naw, I told you, I’m their fair-haired boy. I’m on the D.L. for fifteen days. I’ll be out of this hospital tomorrow morning. So while you guys fuck off to Portland and Phoenix and get your asses whipped eight out of nine without your favorite cleanup hitter, I’ll be sitting in Champagne Charlie’s pounding a Bud and drooling over the strippers.”
“I should have that kind of luck,” says Pascoe. “I don’t know, Barry, you got to stop acting so . . . so external, man,” he added, shaking his head sadly.
I should treat Pascoe better. He’s a decent guy. I don’t know why he hangs around with me. Lately everything I touch seems to turn to shit. Pascoe’s really a good friend. When I first arrived he showed me around Vancouver, which bars and clubs to visit, which to stay away from.
“Stay away from the King’s Castle,” he said to me as we walked down Granville Street one evening, heading toward Champagne Charlie’s strip joint. “It’s the biggest gay bar in Vancouver. Stay away from the Royal Bar, too. Bikers and Indians; half the people in the bar have shivs in their boots—and those are the women.” There were flamingo neon bars above the entrance to the King’s Castle and a dozen young men were standing in groups or lounging individually against the walls near the entrance, all caught in the pinkish glow of the neon.
“Fucking queers,” I said as we passed, not caring if I was heard.
“Behave yourself,” said Pascoe.
The first real incident happened the second week of the season. I have to admit I am naturally a loud person. I tend to shout when I speak; I walk with a bit of a swagger; I keep my head up and my eyes open. I’ve never minded being stared at. I like it that girls often turn and stare after me on the street.
The incident: there is a play in baseball called a suicide squeeze. A manager will call for it with a runner on third, and none or one out. As the pitcher goes into the stretch, the runner breaks from third; it is the hitter’s duty to get the ball on the ground anywhere in the ballpark, though they usually try to bunt it between the pitcher and third or first. The idea is that by the time the ball is fielded, the base runner will have scored, the fielder’s only play being to first. If, however, the hitter misses the pitch, the base runner is dead, hence the term suicide squeeze.
We were playing Phoenix in Vancouver, at Nat Bailey Stadium, a ballpark that, like the city of Vancouver, is clean and green; the only stadium in the Pacific Coast League that can compare to it is the one at the University of Hawaii, where the Islanders play part of their schedule. I tripled to lead off the second inning. Pascoe was batting fifth and he popped up weakly to the shortstop. The manager put on the suicide squeeze. The pitcher checked me, stretched, and delivered. I broke. The batter, a substitute fielder named Denny something, bunted, but he hit the ball way too hard. It was whap! snap! and the ball was in the pitcher’s glove. He fired to the catcher, who was blocking the plate, and I was dead by fifteen feet. But I’d gotten up a real head of steam. I weigh 217 and stand six foot two, and I played a lot of football in high school back in Oklahoma. I hit the guy with a cross block that could have gotten me a job in the NFL. He was a skinny little weasel who looked like he was raised somewhere where kids don’t get fed very often. I knocked him about five feet in the air, and he landed like he’d been shot in flight. The son of a bitch held on to the ball, though. The guy who bunted was at second before someone remembered to call time. They pried the ball out of the catcher’s fingers and loaded him on a stretcher.
I’d knocked him toward our dugout and had to almost step over him to get to the bench. What I saw scared me. His neck was twisted at an awkward angle and he was bleeding from the mouth.
The umpire threw me out of the game for unsportsmanlike conduct. The league president viewed the films and suspended me for five games. The catcher had a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and three cracked ribs. He’s still on the D.L. as far as I know.
The next time I played against Phoenix, I got hit by a pitch the first time up. I charged the mound, the benches cleared, but before I even got to the pitcher, Pascoe landed on my back and took me right out of the play. Suddenly, there were three or four guys wrestling on top of us.
“Behave yourself,” Pascoe hissed into my ear, as he held me pinioned to the ground, while players milled around us. Those have become Pascoe’s favorite words as the summer has deepened, and I keep finding new ways to get into trouble.
Pascoe was happy when I started dating Judy. Word even got back to Skip, and he said a couple of civil words to me for the first time since I coldcocked the Phoenix catcher. Judy was a friend of a girl Pascoe dated a couple of times. She was a tiny brunette, a year younger than me, with dancing brown eyes, a student at the University of British Columbia, studying sociology.
“You’re just shy,” she said to me on our second date.
“Ha!” cried Pascoe. He and his girlfriend were sitting across from us in a Denny’s.
“It’s true,” said Judy. “People who talk and laugh loudly in order to have attention directed to them are really very shy.”
“You are, aren’t you? Shy, I mean,” Judy said later that evening in bed at her apartment. Our lovemaking had been all right, but nothing spectacular.
“I suppose,” I said. “But I’d never admit it.”
“You just did,” said Judy, leaning over to kiss me.
The next thing that got me in bad with management was far worse than just coldcocking a catcher with a football block. Pascoe, Martinez, and I had been out making the rounds after a Saturday night game. I had several beers, but not enough that I should have been out of control. We closed up Champagne Charlie’s, decided to walk home instead of taking a taxi. When we crossed the Granville Street bridge, the predawn air was sweet and foggy. We were near Broadway and Granville, swinging along arm in arm, when the police cruiser pulled up alongside us.
The passenger window of the police car rolled down and an officer no older than Pascoe or me said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’d like to see some identification.”
Pascoe was reaching for his wallet when I said, “What the fuck are you hassling us for? We’re minding our own business.”
The officer ignored me, but he opened the door and stepped out, accepting the piece of ID Pascoe handed him.
Martinez, coming from a country where the police do not always exhibit self-control, stayed behind us, looking worried.
The officer returned Pascoe’s ID. “And you, sir?” he said to Martinez.
“Leave him alone,” I said. “He doesn’t speak English.”
“I’m not addressing you,” the officer said to me.
“Fuck off,” I yelled. “Leave him alone.” I stepped in front of Martinez.
“Behave yourself,” said Pascoe, and grabbed my arm. But I shoved him away, and before he could recover his balance, I shoved the officer back against the car. As the driver was getting out I leapt on the hood of the police car.
What happened next is a blur. I remember screaming curses at the police, dancing madly on the hood of the police car, feeling the hood dimple under my weight, dodging the grasping hands of the police and Pascoe.
I remember hearing Pascoe’s voice crying out, “Oh, man, he’s just crazy, don’t shoot him.” Then there was a hand on my ankle and I toppled sideways to the pavement. My mouth was full of blood and someone was sitting on me and my arms were being pulled behind my back and the handcuffs fastened.
I missed the Sunday afternoon game because management let me sit in jail until my court appearance Monday morning. The police had charged Martinez with creating a disturbance, but when a translator explained what had happened the prosecutor dropped the charge. I faced a half-dozen charges, beginning with assaulting a police officer.
The judge looked down at me where I stood, unshaven, my shirt torn and bloodstained, the left side of my face scraped raw from where I landed on the pavement. He remanded me for fourteen days for psychiatric evaluation.
“I’m not fucking crazy,” I said to no one in particular.
The Vancouver Canadians’ lawyer got on the phone to Milwaukee, and the Milwaukee Brewers’ high-powered lawyers got in on the act. Before the end of the day, they struck a deal. If I agreed to spend an hour every afternoon with a private psychiatrist, the team would guarantee my good behavior, and my sentencing would be put off until the end of the baseball season.
Management had me by the balls. “You fuck up again and you’re gone, kid,” Skip said to me. “It doesn’t matter how talented you are, you’re not worth the aggravation.”
I saw the shrink every afternoon for the whole home stand, weekends included. I took all these weird tests. Questions like “Are you a messenger of God?” and “Has your pet died recently?” I wore a jacket and tie to every session and talked a lot about what a nice girlfriend I had and how much I respected my parents.
“Well, Barry,” the doctor said to me after about ten sessions, “you don’t appear to have any serious problems, but I do wish you’d make an effort to be more cooperative. I am here to help you, after all.”
“I thought I was being cooperative,” I said innocently.
“In one sense you have been, but only partially. I find that you are mildly depressive, that you’re anxious, under a lot of stress. Stress is natural in your profession, but I sense that there is something else bothering you, and I wish you’d level with me. To use an analogy, it is said that with a psychiatrist one tends to bare the body, scars and all, tear open the chest so to speak, and expose your innermost feelings. However, to date, you have scarcely taken off your overcoat.”
“Look, I’m okay, honest. I had too much to drink, I got out of control. It won’t happen again.”
“Suit yourself,” said the doctor.
My life leveled out for almost a month. We went on a road trip. I continued to hit well; I watched the American League standings, studied Milwaukee’s box score in each day’s newspaper, watched them fade out of the pennant race. I wondered how much longer it would be before I got my call to the Bigs. Once in Tacoma, Pascoe had to keep me from punching the lights out of a taxi driver who said something insulting about ballplayers, but other than that incident I stayed cool. I phoned Judy almost every night. I found myself doing with her what Pascoe so often did with me; I analyzed the game, dissected my at-bats pitch by pitch. I knew what I was saying wasn’t very interesting for her, but it was a release for me, and not only did Judy not seem to mind, she gave the impression she enjoyed it.
I can’t understand why I continue to fuck up. Judy brought two friends to a Sunday afternoon game. It was a perfect blue day and the stands at Nat Bailey Stadium are close enough to the field that I could look over at Judy and smile while I stood in the on-deck circle swinging a weighted bat. Her friends were a couple, Christine, a bouncy blonde with ringlets and a sexy way of licking her lips, and her husband, a wimpy guy who wore a jacket and tie and looked like he was shorter than Christine.
Although I had three hits and two RBIs, I wasn’t in a good mood after the game. We went to one of these California-style restaurants with white walls and pink tablecloths, where everything is served in a sauce, and they look at you like you just shit on the floor if you ask for French fries. To top it off, I didn’t like Trevor, and he didn’t like me. I pounded about three Bud and then I drank a whole pitcher of this wine-cooler slop that tastes like Kool-Aid.
What really threw the shit into the fan was when the three of them decided the four of us would go to a movie, something called Kiss of the Spider Woman, about a couple of queers locked up in a prison in Argentina or someplace. Trevor gave us a little lecture about the eloquent statement the director was trying to make.
“There’s no fucking way I’m going to a movie like that,” I said, standing up to make my point.
“Barry, don’t you dare make a scene,” said Judy.
“No need to be boisterous about it,” said Trevor. “You’ve simply been outvoted. We’d be happy to let you choose, but I don’t think The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is showing in Vancouver at the moment.”
I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed the tablecloth and pushed everything across the table into Trevor’s lap, then turned and stomped out.
I was surprised when Judy caught up with me a half block down the street.
“You were only half to blame for that scene,” she said. “I’m always willing to go halfway,” she added, taking my arm.
“I’d rather you went all the way,” I said.
But things didn’t go well back at her apartment.
“For goodness’ sake, Barry, relax,” Judy said. “You’re still mad. Nobody can make love when they’re mad.”
But I was thrashing about the room; I’d pulled on most of my clothes by the time I got to the door. Ignoring the elevator, I ran down the stairs, realizing about halfway that I’d abandoned my shoes in Judy’s apartment.
I crossed the lobby running full out, and it felt to me as if I was on one prolonged suicide squeeze, the catcher twenty feet tall, made of bricks, waiting with the ball, grinning. I didn’t even slow down as I hit the wall of glass next to the door.
In spite of my bragging about spending my time in the strip joints while the team was on its road trip, I actually stayed out of downtown the whole time. Last night I met this chick at a club over on Broadway, near the University of British Columbia. She was with a date, but she knew who I was and made it pretty plain she liked me. I made a late date for after the game tonight. I’m supposed to meet her at some white wine and fern restaurant in the financial district downtown, in the same building as the American embassy. Vicki is her name. She’s tall with red-gold hair and freckles on her shoulders. Last night she was wearing a white sundress that showed off her tan.
“Bazoos that never quit,” I said to Pascoe. “You should see her, man.” I made a lapping motion with my tongue.
The game ended early. I took right up where I left off before the accident; I hit two dingers, a single, and stole a base. After each home run, I toured the bases slowly, my head erect, trying to look as arrogant as possible; I have a lot to prove to Skip, to management, to the self-righteous bastards I play with.
Sometimes I can’t help but think about a note that was shoved through one of the vent slats in my locker at Nat Bailey Stadium. It was written on a paper towel from the washroom, printed in a childish scrawl. “Management pays Pascoe 300 a month to be you’re freind,” it said. For an instant my stomach dipped and I thought I might vomit. I quickly crumpled the towel and stuffed it in my back pocket. I glanced around to see if I could catch anybody watching me. No luck. I’d never ask Pascoe. What if it was true? I hate to admit it, but that note got to me. I think about it more than I ever should.
“Let’s the three of us stop by Champagne Charlie’s,” I said to Pascoe and Martinez in the locker room. “We can pound a few Bud and eyeball the strippers. There’s a new one since you guys have been out of town. You should see the fucking contortions she goes through. Someone there said she licks her own pussy during the midnight show.”
“I thought you had this red-hot date,” said Pascoe.
“Fuck her,” I said. “Let her wait. They like you better if you treat them like shit.”
We headed off, three abreast, just like old times. Me in the center, Pascoe to my left, Martinez linked to my right arm.
“Just like a fucking airplane,” I said, walking fast, watching pedestrians part or move aside to let us pass.
“Punchline!” I shouted, as we loped along. “So I stood up, tried to kick my ass, missed, fell off the roof, and broke my leg.”
Pascoe laughed. Martinez grinned foolishly.
“The nun had a straight razor in her bra,” said Pascoe, the bluish streetlights reflecting off his teeth.
“Fucking, right on,” I said.
We swaggered into Champagne Charlie’s, got seats at the counter, right in front of the stage, ordered a round of Bud, and settled in.
“This Canadian beer tastes like gopher piss,” I said, drawing a few ugly stares from the other customers. But we knocked back three each anyway.
The stripper was named La Velvet and was very tall and black. She took a liking to Pascoe, winked, and crinkled her nose at him as she did the preliminary shedding of clothes. When she was naked except for red high-heeled shoes, she dragged her ass around the stage like a cat in heat. Then, facing us, with her hands flat on the floor at her sides, she edged toward us, braced her heels on the carpet at the edge of the stage, spreading her legs wide until her pussy was about a foot from Pascoe’s face.
“Way to go, baby,” I yelled. “Hey, Marty, how’d you like to eat that for breakfast? And lunch? And dinner?”
Martinez grinned amiably, pretending to understand.
I stood up and clapped in rhythm to her gyrating body.
“Behave yourself,” hissed Pascoe.
“Way to go, baby. Wrap those long legs around his neck. Show me a guy who won’t go down on his lady, and I will.”
The bouncer came over and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Sit down,” he said.
I was holding a bottle of Bud in my right hand. For half a second I considered smashing it across his face. He was obviously an ex-fighter, with a nose several times broken and heavy scar tissue across his eyebrows. Then I felt Pascoe’s huge hand on my arm.
“Sit down, Barry,” he growled. “Why do you always have to act like an asshole, man? Why do you have to be bigger and tougher and raunchier and more rough-and-ready than everybody else?”
I sat down. La Velvet was gathering up her robe and heading down some stairs at the back of the stage. I noticed that her nails were painted a deep, dark red, the color of a ripe cherry.
“Sorry, I just get carried away,” I said lamely.
Pascoe glared at me.
“You spoiled my chances, man. Why do you have to act like a fucking animal?”
I didn’t have any answer for him. I suppose I could blame it on the summer, the pressure of playing pro ball, being a long way from home for the first time.
La Velvet, wrapped in a scarlet robe that matched her high heels, appeared from a door on Martinez’s side of the counter. As she walked behind us she leaned close to Pascoe and said in a throaty voice, “My last show’s at midnight. You plannin’ to be here?”
“Somebody’d have to kill me to keep me away,” said Pascoe, grinning like a maniac.
“Don’t you have a date?” he said to me as soon as La Velvet was gone.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“You don’t seem very excited about it anymore.”
“Why don’t you guys walk over to the restaurant with me? Just to keep me company.”
“Naw, I want to sit here and dream about that midnight show and what’s comin’ after it,” said Pascoe.
“You want to come for a walk, Marty?” I said.
Martinez stared at me, smiling, uncomprehending.
“Walk. Hike. El tromp-tromp. How the hell do you say walk in Spanish?”
Martinez continued to look confused. He glanced from me to Pascoe, as if seeking advice.
“Walk with me!” I howled, standing up, my beer bottle clutched in my hand. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the bouncer start in our direction.
“Behave yourself,” said Pascoe urgently, standing up, too. “We’ll come with you, just stop acting like a jerk.” To the bouncer he said, “We’re just leaving. Two drinks and my buddy here thinks he’s Tarzan.”
“Pound that Bud,” I called out as Pascoe pulled me toward the exit. People were staring at us as we made our way across the nightclub and up the stairs to the street.
The movies were just out and Granville Street was teeming as we walked along three abreast, arms linked. I forged ahead, the point of the wedge, the pilot. Pascoe relived that night’s game, every at-bat, every play he was involved in.
“Man, if I’d just laid back and waited for the slider,” he was saying. “He struck me out with an off-speed slider because I was guessing fast ball—”
“Punchline!” I shouted. “If you can get up and go to work, the leasht I can do ith pack you a lunch.”
I guffawed loudly. Martinez grinned, jigging along beside me. Pascoe, however, continued to analyze the game.
As we rolled along, we passed the shadowy entrance to the King’s Castle. One door was open, but it was too dark to see inside. A fan expelled the odors of warm beer and cigarette smoke onto the sidewalk. There were several men in the entranceway. Two of them stood near the doorway, touching, talking earnestly into each other’s faces. Pascoe talked on, looking neither right nor left. A tawny-skinned young man in tight Levis, his white shirt open, tied in a knot across his belly, leaned insolently against a wall.
“Fucking queers,” I yelled, pushing on faster.
“Behave yourself,” snapped Pascoe.
Beyond the King’s Castle I breathed easier. As we were passing, my eyes had flashed across those of the tawny-skinned boy and I had felt that he knew. As I know. That it is not a matter of will I or won’t I, but only of how long before I do.
“Punchline!” I wailed. “Trouble was, the pilot was gay.”
“Ha, ha,” cried Martinez, thinking he understood.