Ted stood before his supervisor, the martinet, clearing out his locker. His boss was monologuing him even though Ted had received the communication twenty minutes ago—he was fired, he got it. They knew he’d stolen the VCR and the tapes. They knew he ate some of the peanuts he was meant to sell. They suspected he might be a spy for the Boston Red Sox. They knew enough to bring criminal charges, but they didn’t know if they would. Let them do their worst. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks and all that shit. He didn’t need this fucking job, working for peanuts. Ha ha. He wasn’t Mr. Peanut, he was a man, a fucking man with big clanging balls, spell that M-A-N. Like Muddy Waters. The Dead started up “Candyman” in his head and Ted wanted to sing along, grab a shotgun, and blow this Mr. Benson straight to hell.
But Ted said nothing at all. Mungo stood watching from a safe distance as Ted stuffed the remainder of his junk into his knapsack. On the way out he passed Mungo, who lifted his arm, the one with the bowling forearm guard, high in the air like John Carlos and Tommie Smith at the ’68 Olympics. As Ted left the stadium for good, he returned the Black Power salute.
“Up the workers, Mungo.”
“Up the workers, Teddy Ballgame.”