WE RODE THE BUS. IT WAS A BIG WHITE BUS WITH blue and red stripes and so many seats and so many people. It stopped and started, so more people got on and a few got off. I saw a man with a black wrap pulled over his head, a woman who wore dried flowers on a straw hat, a man who made sounds like a bird, and a little girl who hummed along with the whir of the bus. I saw red signs rush by, white words glow, windows gleam, and then I could see me: My face! My hair! My waving hands!
I could see me, reflected in the glass of the window, smile and wave back, like a moving picture, so when we rolled past a restaurant, I could almost see myself sitting there. What would I order? What would I eat? When we rolled by an office, I could almost see myself at a desk, or at an elevator. What did I do? What was my job?
When we rolled by an apartment building, I could see myself in the glass of the window, looking out the window at me, passing by on the bus and looking out from the bus. I could almost see myself sit on the rug in a living room, or the edge of a bed, and feel like someone who could look out at me on the bus, and wave back.
I told Esther’s family, “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a bus like this before.”
“How do you go anywhere?” Javvy asked.
“I don’t. Not really. I want to go home to see my mother.”
“Why don’t you take the bus there?” he asked.
“I don’t know where to go.”
“Oh.”
“So you live back there?” asked Miriam.
“Yes.”
“And work in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Wow,” said Javvy. “Our parents don’t work at home.”
“They work at night sometimes, too,” Miriam added.
“Things can happen at night,” Rob Bartlestein told us all.
“I just work at day,” I told the family.
“What do you do?” asked Miriam.
“Chop stuff. Pour stuff. Set out stuff. Fish for peaches and pears.”
“Like fish? In the ocean?”
“In cans,” I told them. “I fish for peaches, pears, and apples in the syrup.”
“Can we do that sometime?” Javvy asked his father.
We got off with a lot of other people across the street from the ballpark. I saw the most people I have ever seen, 8 times many more 8s, times after times. I had to stop counting 8s. All different kinds of people, too: fathers and daughters, boyfriends and girlfriends, people in blue, people in red, people in T-shirts, grandfathers and grandsons, bunches of boys, people in pink, people in purple, people in jackets, grandmothers and granddaughters, people walking on heels, girlfriends with girlfriends, people in yellow, people in soft shoes. We walked through the gate and into a tunnel, which was very loud, with people laughing, and bright, buzzing lights, and strong, sizzling smells, and then through another tunnel, and out onto the other side to face a big beautiful green field.
It was as green as a park, and so bright I had to blink.
“This is beautiful,” I told Esther’s family, and Rob Bartlestein put a hand on my shoulder.
“It sure is. May I call you Sal?”
“Sal Gal, even.”
“Is that a nickname, Sal Gal?” asked Miriam. “I’ve tried to do that with my name. But all my friends could come up with is”—and she paused—“bacterium,” she said finally, and Javvy went, “Eeew!”
“I’m Javier, Lighter than Air,” he said. “Javier I Swear.”
“Javier, Who Cares?” said Miriam, but she laughed, then so did their father, and I laughed, too.
We sat down in a place that looked over all the green.
“So you’ve never been to a ball game?” Rob Bartlestein asked.
“Not like this,” I told the family. “I’ve seen games on tee-vee. I’ve seen people play in the park. In front of Sunnyside Plaza, you see boys and girls walk along with balls and bats sometimes. Not like this.”
“No, nothing is like this,” he agreed. “Okay, gang, bring on those Cardinals,” he said. “But first, are we a little thirsty? Lemonade, ice cream. And what about some hot dogs?”
“Hot dogs!” Javvy said all over again. “Hot dogs! Hot dogs!”
“I’ve had hot dogs,” I told them.
“Not like here,” said Javvy.
“I don’t know what it is, but they’re better here,” said Miriam. “The bun is smooshy.”
“Extra soft,” said Javvy.
“I like the mustard. Tangy,” said his father. “And the relish—green like a neon sign.”
He waved at a man who had hot dogs in a big silver tub and got 4. They were wrapped in crinkly paper and steam rose in my nose as I unwrapped it.
“This is sooo good,” I told them as I chewed.
“We’ll get something to drink, too,” said Rob Bartlestein.
“And peanuts, too, right?” asked Miriam. “And ice cream.”
“Not until the seventh inning,” said their father. “I’m a strict disciplinarian.”
I saw numbers on brick walls and on a big green board on the other side of the field and asked Rob Bartlestein about them.
“Oh. Well, straight ahead is the scoreboard,” he explained. “The big dark-green board. Green, like an old blackboard. When a team scores a run, they put it up there. When a pitcher throws a ball or a strike, they put it up there. So even if you’ve been eating and talking and cracking open peanuts, you can look up at the scoreboard and know the story of the game at any second. Just by catching a glance at all the numbers.”
“What’s the 3 and 5 and 5 over there?” I asked and pointed.
“Oh, that’s by the foul pole. Three hundred fifty-five feet to left field. Look out in the middle—four hundred feet to center. And over on the right, three hundred sixty-eight feet.”
“Wow, all those feet?” I giggled.
“It’s a way to measure space. I guess it probably comes from our flippers down here,” said Rob Bartlestein.
Rob wiggled his feet, and then Javvy raised his to do the same, so I did, too.
“But your feet are bigger than mine,” I told Rob Bartlestein.
“Well, yes. I’ve got real clodhoppers, as they say. Size twelves, like Frankenstein,” he said. “Frankenstein Bartlestein.” And then Rob Bartlestein opened his mouth wide to go “Ahhh. Ahhh.” We laughed. Even a few people around us laughed. “But that doesn’t mean left field is three hundred fifty-five of my feet away. Or your feet. Or Javvy’s feet.”
“My feet, then it would be, like, a zillion feet away,” said the little boy.
“They settled on making twelve inches into a foot,” said Rob.
“I’m four feet tall, right?” asked Javvy. “Four feet, ten inches.”
“That was a couple of months ago, little squeak,” Miriam announced. “I bet you’re shorter now.”
“Am not.”
“Could be.”
“Can’t be.”
They went back and forth before Rob Bartlestein announced, “Can’t be. He’s right. Your sister is kidding you. Are we here to watch the game? Sal Gal probably thinks we’re crazy.”
“Sal Gal likes you a lot,” I told them.
I didn’t know a lot about the game, but Esther’s family helped me along.
“It’s all in the numbers up on the board,” Rob explained. “We’re behind, three to two. It’s the fifth inning. Can you see how many innings?” I followed his finger all the way to the left.
I told him, “8 plus 1.”
“Yes. Well, yes,” said Rob Bartlestein. “Unless we can get a run here, and maybe go extra innings.”
I didn’t quite know how to follow the game, but Javvy and Miriam and I made up one of our own.
“When the pitcher winds up, we can guess if the batter will swing.”
I saw the man in the center of the brown mound in the field twist around, and as he threw the ball, I yelled, “Swing!” The man with the bat in his hand tried to swat the ball but missed.
“A point for Sal Gal,” said Miriam. “He swung. Javvy?”
The man on the mound wound up again and threw. “No swing!” cried Javvy. The man with the bat did swing, but missed.
“Sal Gal one, Javier zero,” said Miriam. “Dad?”
“I’ll stay with balls and strikes,” said Rob Bartlestein. “You go ahead.”
Javvy had 4 times 8 plus 2 by the time we stopped, I had 3 times 8 plus 3, and Miriam had 3 times 8 plus 1.
“You win, little squeak,” said Miriam. “But, Sal Gal, you were close.”
“Pay attention now,” said Javvy. “We’ve got a last chance here.”
We had chocolate ice cream bars when they put two 0s under the 7 on the board and cracked peanuts through the whole game. I’m not sure who won, but I had a great time, even on the bus ride back, where we had to stand and people kept smiling at us and telling each other, “Hey, we’ll get those guys tomorrow.”
When our bus rolled by the street where we got off for Sunnyside Plaza, the whole Bartlestein family got off, too, and walked me inside. Dorothy buzzed the door. I showed them the kitchen.
“This is where I chop stuff,” I said. “This is where I sprinkle cereal.”
“Sprinkle,” said Javvy, and laughed. “Sprinkle!”
“And this is where I fish.”
“For pears and peaches,” Miriam remembered.
Little Javvy shook my hand and Miriam kissed me and hugged me.
“What a great time, Sal Gal,” she said.
“I’m sorry Esther couldn’t join us. But I’m glad you could,” said Rob Bartlestein. “She gets tickets to the games at the station house sometimes. I tell you what, Sal: Let’s all go again soon. Would that be okay?”
“Yes. Yes!” I told him.
“Yes!” Miriam said. “We’ll beat Javvy next time.”
“Maybe you’d like to bring a friend along, too, Sal?” asked Rob, and I thought about Mary and Pilar.
“Yes. Yes!”
“Well then, we’ll look forward to seeing you soon, Sal Gal,” said Rob Bartlestein. Dorothy closed the door and I was happy to have such nice friends.
I saw Esther Rivas just a few days later. But it wasn’t a happy time.