It’s dark when the train pulls into Louisville. I have the little overhead light on, reading a Baseball Digest article on Cleveland Indians manager Birdie Tebbets.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
“No,” I tell her. “Not at all.”
She’s tall, not too homely, a lot older, maybe thirty, in a bulky sweater and a woolly skirt. Sitting down, she smells nice, like a vanilla wafer.
Just do your best, I tell myself.
I give her time to set her purse on the floor, turn on her overhead light, get comfortable. Then before she can open her magazine, I ask, “From Louisville?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you from Louisville. I noticed you boarded here and I was wondering if you’re actually from Louisville or perhaps only visiting. I’m from the Chicago area myself— the Windy City, as they say.” I give a little laugh. “Actually, it’s probably no windier there than, well, Louisville, for example.”
“You’ve been to Louisville?”
“Great city. Wonderful people. My name’s Max, by the way.” I can always tell her my real name later, if things work out.
Her name is Audrey, she says, and I have no reason to doubt it.
“So,” I continue, “you’re from Lousiville.”
“Actually, no. I was there for a teacher’s conference.”
“Well. A teacher. What is it you teach, Audrey? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. American history.”
“No kidding. I’m kind of a history buff myself.”
“Oh? What particular—”
“So, where ya headed, Audrey?”
“Atlanta.”
“I could tell.”
“Really? How?”
“That Georgia drawl. Cut it with a knife.”
“Actually, I’ve only lived there a year. I’m from Dubuque.”
“Hey, great city.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Just passing through. Had a pizza there. Wasn’t bad.”
“So where are you headed, Max?”
Max.
“Actually, I’m on my way to Florida. West Palm Beach. Baseball tryout camp down there.”
“Baseball,” she says. “Bet you’ll have fun.”
I give a laugh. “It’s not really for fun, I’m afraid. Good chance of me getting signed right there with a pro club.”
“So you want to be a baseball player, huh?”
Like I want to be a fireman or a cowboy.
“It’s quite serious,” I tell her.
“I can see that.”
I’m not getting through here.
“I’d like to sign with the White Sox, naturally, being from Chicago, but what I’ll probably end up doing, I’ll probably just go with the best offer.”
“Good idea.” She winks. “Go with the green.”
This woman is pissing me off. I look out the window and try to think of a big-league team that’s weak at second base. The White Sox, since trading Fox. But another team would sound more believable. I decide on the Cleveland Indians. When I turn back she’s reading her magazine.
“Can you keep a secret, Audrey?”
She looks up. “I… suppose.”
“I haven’t told this to anyone, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The Indians are after me.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“The Indians. They’re after me.”
“After you?”
“For about a year now.”
“Indians?”
“One of their scouts spotted me last spring. They’ve been hounding me ever since.”
“Driving me nuts.”
“Uh-huh. So … what is it they want? Do you know?”
“They want me to join ’em, that’s what they want.”
“I see. Become one of them.”
“I told ’em, I said, Took—’”
“So you’ve spoken with them.”
“Buncha times. I keep telling ’em, ‘Get off my back, will ya? When I make my decision I’ll let you know.’ Two days later they’re calling me again.”
“On the telephone?”
“Day and night.”
She nods. “And do you ever see them?”
“Couple times. One of their scouts ambushed me after school one day.”
“But you escaped.”
“Eventually.”
“And would I be able to see them, too?”
“How do you mean?”
“If they were here—one of their scouts, for example. Would I be able to see him? And speak with him?”
“I guess. If you wanted. What for, though? I mean, no offense, but I don’t think he’d be interested in you.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Well, I mean … they don’t generally go after women.”
“I see. And why is that, do you suppose.”
This lady’s turning out to be a little strange.
“Well, what could they use a woman for?” I say to her.
“She could cook for them, couldn’t she?”
“That’s … true. Except, I think they probably have their own cooks, Audrey. You know?”
“I see. So they’re only interested in you. Is that it?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m sure they’re after other guys, too.”
“But they have to be special, don’t they.”
“Well, they’re not gonna go after just anybody.”
“And what makes you special, Max? Out of all the others.”
“Hey, I don’t wanna sit here bragging, okay?”
“Just between us.”
“All right. Just between us? I’m better, that’s all. Simple as that.”
“Better in what way, Max?”
“A lotta ways, except…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t have much power.”
“I see. You mean like the power of medicine men? Is that the kind of power you’re talking about?”
“Not… exactly.”
I think this woman has a screw loose.
“What kind of power do you mean, Max? I’m curious.”
“I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind stroking one out now and then, that’s all. That’s all I’m talking about.”
“‘Stroking one out’?”
“Just, you know, to see how it feels.”
“So you’ve never … ‘stroked one out’?” she says, dropping her voice.
“Like I said, I don’t have the power. Don’t have the size really.”
“I see. So size is important?”
“For power? Sure. But that’s not what they want me for. They already got plenty of power.”
“So what is it they want you for, Max?”
She’s making me nervous, the way she keeps leaning towards me, speaking secretly. Plus the lighting here is spooky.
“Where did you say you were going?” I ask, to change the subject.
“Atlanta.”
“Hey, great city. Wonderful people. I was there, back in … let’s see now …”
“What do they want from you, Max? Can you tell me?”
“I’m gonna read for a while, okay?”
But she doesn’t take the hint. She leans even closer. I can see the veins in her eyeballs.
“Are you afraid, Max?”
“Little bit.”
“Afraid they’ll hurt you?”
“Who?”
“The Indians.”
Oh, man.
“They’re not gonna hurt me. Why would they hurt me?”
“So what is it you fear, Max?”
I don’t know if she knows it but she has her hand on my knee.
“What are you afraid of?” she whispers.
“Of you,” I whisper back.
She sits back, opens the magazine in her lap and starts flipping through it, looking at the left page, looking at the right.
I think I hurt her feelings.
“Hey,” I tell her.
She keeps flipping pages.
“Audrey …”
She doesn’t look up.
“You didn’t scare me,” I tell her, “okay? Really. It was just… the way you were whispering, that’s all. I get a little nervous when people whisper. I’m kind of a nervous person, okay?”
“Well,” she says, turning a page, “maybe your Indian friends will help you overcome that.”
“Right. Thing is, actually, that was sort of … made up. They’re not really after me. I was just trying to impress you.”
She looks at me. “You thought that would impress me?”
“Well, yeah. I mean … didn’t it?”
“Impress me? No. It alarmed me, hearing someone say such outlandish things.”
“Hey now, wait a minute, it’s not that outlandish. It could be true. Could damn well be true, believe me.”
“A lot of things could be true, Max. It could even be true you once ate a pizza in Dubuque.” She returns to her magazine.
Just to show her how much she knows, I inform her that my name’s not Max.
“I’m not surprised,” she says, flipping a page.
I tell her, “You’re right. I was never in Dubuque. But I am going to a baseball camp and believe me it’s not for fun. It’s called the Al Haines Baseball School and Tryout Camp and tons of pro players got started there, including guys like—”
“Please?” She looks at me in a pleading way. “Do I have to find another seat?”
I don’t answer.
She returns to her magazine.
We don’t talk anymore after that. She reads her magazine and I rest my head against the window.
A thin bright edge of the moon cuts along, keeping up.
She believed me about the Indians, I know damn well she did. Because it will be true. Maybe not with the Indians but it’s gonna happen. They’re gonna see what I can do down there and they’re gonna say, Sign right here, kid, because I am one hell of a ballplayer and she believed me—and it turned her on. It got her all hot. And she’s embarrassed about it now.
Poor old thing.
I fold my arms, close my eyes, and go to sleep.
On the train ride coming home, the moon is full. Gazing at its woeful face, I think about spending the rest of my life as a train conductor … a butcher … a businessman … a bum, a fucking skid row bum …