Bottom of the Ninth

BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

         The stone corridor rapidly closed in from both sides. Matt couldn't worry about that, though. He ran, stumbling, to reach the object of his quest. He could see it just ahead: the Golden Bell. He must reach it before it rang, for its tone would kill a man. He ran faster, reaching out for the deadly relic.

         Did it move? Was it swaying in its wooden yoke even as his fingertips brushed the cold metal, the clapper poised to strike the innards of the bell?

         Yes. Too late. The bell clanged, harsh and deafening. Matt felt his brain dissolving. He pressed his palms to his ears; grimaced in pain. "Make it stop!" he screamed. "Please, make it sto..."

         "Matt! Wake up and answer the damned telephone," his wife, Brenda, shrilled, digging her knee into his spine. "And stop hollering."

         The dream faded. Matt peered at the clock on the night stand through sleep encrusted eyes and snatched up the telephone. "What?" he croaked.

         "Matt?"

         Awake now and wondering what fool would be calling at seven on a Saturday morning, Matt Ferguson replied, "Yeah. Who's this?"

         "Dennis. Dennis Lefler"

         Matt sat up in bed. Yawned. "Hey, buddy, what are you up to? What? I can barely hear you. There's static on the line."

         A moment passed. The sound disappeared. "Better?"

         "Yeah," Matt said. "What was that?"

         Dennis took a heavy breath. "Respirator. I'm in County Hospital. They keep this thing pushing air into me in case I forget to breathe."

         Matt couldn't summon up an image of Dennis in a hospital setting. The two of them had always been athletic, healthy and full of life since they first met in Little League and became friends.

         Matt, tall and fast, with a slim build, looked like a baseball player. Dennis, on the other hand, was of medium height and solidly built. Many freckle-faced catchers had suffered for trying to tag Dennis out at home plate. Matt was blonde and blue-eyed; Dennis was dark, with a dreamy quality about him.

         They remained the closest of friends until their senior year of college. That's when Brenda came into Matt's life and captured his heart and his balls. During his four years of marriage to Brenda, Matt and Dennis grew increasingly distant. Matt realized more than a year had passed since he last spoke with Dennis.

         "What's the problem, Den?"

         "Remember that little difference between us," Dennis wheezed.

         "Uh huh," Matt responded.

         "Well, it got me, friend. I wouldn't listen. Wouldn't practice safe-sex. Now I'm paying the price."

         "Aw, man...AIDS?" Matt guessed, frowning.

         Heavy coughing issued from the telephone. The hissing sound reappeared. "Den, you okay?"

         "Yeah. Let me catch my breath."

         Brenda tugged at Matt's arm. He turned to her and saw concern on her elfin face, beneath the mop of tousled blonde curls. She mouthed "What?"

         "It's Dennis. He's in the hospital," Matt whispered.

         Her concerned look changed instantly to an expression of contempt. She detested Dennis and still couldn't understand why a straight guy like Matt would even consider hanging out with someone like Dennis, though Matt had tried to explain to her on several occasions. "We became friends when we were kids, Brenda. We were teenagers before we became aware of our sexual preferences. I started getting goofy over girls and Dennis started pointing out 'cool' guys. But we were like brothers. Dennis never had those feelings for me. To him, I was a trusted friend, just as he was to me."

         Still, she managed to whip herself into a rage when she recalled the way she first learned that Dennis was, in her Deep South vernacular, "funny".

         Two weeks before she and Matt were to be married, Matt suggested a double date with Dennis and his latest partner. Until that time Brenda liked Dennis. She thought the date would be fun. When Dennis and an obviously effeminate male friend joined her and Matt at the restaurant, she found no humor in the situation. She threw a tantrum, making it crystal clear that she wanted nothing to do with Dennis or his "kind". In fact, she very nearly called off the wedding.

         Matt, struck stupid by lust for her, promised not to hang out with Dennis after they were married. It was a promise he had regretted many times since.

         Now, at twenty-eight, they had their own lives. Matt was prospering as a C.P.A. and, he assumed, Dennis would be a well-to-do architect by this time.

         "Still there?" Dennis asked.

         "Sure," Matt nodded, even though Dennis couldn't see him.

         "AIDS it is. Hit me hard and fast about six months ago. The doctors tell me I'm not going to be one of those cases that last for ten years or more and end up on the cover of Parade magazine. Don't start reading any long novels, and all that."

         "I-I..." Matt stammered.

         "I know. What do you say?" Dennis quipped. "How's Brenda?"

         Matt watched as Brenda got out of bed and padded toward the bathroom. Her tight, naked ass still aroused him. "The same," he said.

         "That's good...or bad...depending. Look, Matt, I called to ask a favor. Can you get away...come visit me today?"

         "No problem," Matt lied, knowing how Brenda would react when he told her their plans to go shopping for new living room furniture would have to be rescheduled. "I'll be up before noon. Where? Room 428? Got it. Need anything?"

         "Just you, buddy."

*****

         The elevator creaked open at the fourth floor and Matt stepped out. He walked down the hall, checking the numbers on the doors he passed. The smell of disinfectant, floor wax and the sour scent of human sickness burned his nostrils. The door to room 428 had a letter-sized notice in red ink taped to the outside. It warned hospital personnel that the patient had an infectious disease and that they should follow all safety protocols.

         Matt hesitated, his hand on the doorknob, gathering his courage. He wanted to be prepared for the worst. He counted to ten and went inside.

         There was no way to prepare for the sight before him, shrunken and gray against stark white sheets. Dennis lay on his back, blue- veined hands crossed over his sunken chest. The respirator mask covered his nose and mouth, breathing air into his lungs. His face was horribly gaunt, the skin shiny; stretched tight over prominent cheekbones. A death mask.

         The husky, vital man Matt once knew was gone--drawn into this shriveled specter who weighed about ninety pounds.

         Dennis's eyes fluttered open. Long seconds elapsed before they focused on Matt. "Hi, bud," Dennis said, his words garbled by the oxygen mask. With patient effort he raised his right hand.

         Matt took the fragile offering in both of his hands. "Hi, yourself."

         Dennis removed the mask with his free hand. "My one true friend. I knew you'd come."

         "Hey, popular guy like you has lots of friends," Matt said, trying a smile that didn't fit comfortably on his face.

         Dennis's head rolled loosely from side to side. "Not now. Relatives deserted me long ago. Business associates ran like hell when they found out I had AIDS. I'm broke, by the way. Try spending three solid months in the hospital and see how long your assets last. No insurance...who needs it, right?

         "I'm twenty-fucking-eight years old! And my companion, the one who so graciously shared his virus with me, has moved on to greener, less terminal, pastures."

         A deep, dull cough blew from between his lips. He gagged. His tongue, covered with a thick cottony blanket of thrush, lolled from his mouth. He saw Matt staring. "Lovely, huh? They give me super-powerful antibiotics to combat the pneumonia. The antibiotics bring on the thrush. The medicine to treat the thrush makes my stomach feel like cats are fighting down there, and the stomach medicine kills my appetite. Plus, I've been on a combination of three AIDS drugs for six months with some really interesting side-effects. Muscle atrophy, headaches, weight loss, of course, and fatigue as heavy as one of Liberace's stage costumes. So tired, I can't function. I'm screwed, Matt. And it's only gonna get worse."

         Matt perched on the edge of Dennis's bed. "Maybe they'll find something, Den. Something to cure this shit."

         "Too late for me even if they did find a cure. I'm used up. The virus has filled me with zillions of replicas of itself, and it's intent on committing suicide by killing its host . . . me."

         Dennis's hand was warm and moist but Matt refused to release it. "You said you needed a favor, dude. Name it."

         Another series of non-productive coughs were followed by a sickly smile that only added to the death mask illusion. "Remember how we used to make everything a baseball analogy? Well, I've got a life-time batting average of about 0.130, I ran the bases backward, and I seldom heard a roar of approval from the crowd. It's the bottom of the ninth, I'm down by one, nobody on, two outs and two strikes and I'm swinging at a virus that's low and inside. I'm taking my final swing...and I know I'll fan it. Game over. I lose."

         Matt frowned.

         "No, I'm not crazy. Not yet, anyway. It's just that the happiest days I remember were the days you and I spent at the ball park watching double-headers. This time of year especially. Hot during the first game but then, after the sun went down, a mellow breeze would blow across the cheap seats and it was perfection. I'd close my eyes and listen to the crack of the bat, the crowd cheering or booing, vendors calling out 'Co’ beer! Ice co’ beer!' I've never since felt at ease like I did then."

         Dennis wheezed and his eyes shot wide. He draped the mask back over his face and let the pressurized air fill his struggling lungs.

         Matt patted Dennis's hand. "Those were the best of times. At least until I discovered pussy."

         Dennis's chest heaved in what could have been a laugh or a sob.

         The door to the room swung open suddenly and a young nurse hurried in. She shooed Matt off the bed, hung a fresh plastic bag of dextrose water to feed Dennis's IV, took Dennis's pulse and blood pressure and left the room, her crepe soles squeaking on the linoleum.

         "Don't talk much, do they?" Matt observed, pulling a chair over to the bedside.

         Dennis again removed the mask. "The favor, Matt. I want you to take me to the ball park. Double-header starts at three-thirty."

         "You are crazy! They won’t let you out of here. You're really sick, Den."

         "So you have to sneak me out. Easy. There's an emergency door at the short end of the hall. Stairs lead down to an exit onto the parking lot instead of the lobby. No one will know."

         "But..."

         "No 'buts'. You're a big, strong boy and I've shrunk down to bones. I'm sure you can carry my little fly-weight ass down four flights of stairs," Dennis said.

         "How about the ball park? I can't carry you from the parking lot to the outfield seats."

         "Rent a wheelchair. There's a medical supply store just down the street. You can get me to my seat in the chair. Then all you have to do is buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, I don’t give a fuck if I never get back, or however that song goes."

         "Dennis, this is insane. You need that respirator to breathe."

         "I've got a small, portable oxygen tank in the closet over there that I was using at home. I can get by with that."

         Matt thought desperately. "Your IV?"

         "Don't need it. I'll drink beer instead."

         This part of Dennis was alive and well, Matt thought. The part of him that could always talk Matt into anything. Matt shrugged. "Let's do it."

         Together they disconnected the IV, Matt being particularly careful of the needle. Then Matt found Dennis's clothes in the closet. He dressed his friend gently. The clothes hung on Dennis's skeletal frame, reminding Matt of a small child playing grown-up, wearing daddy's shirt and pants.

         After a surreptitious reconnoiter of the hall, Matt lifted Dennis easily, carried him to the emergency door and down the stairs. Except for a near slip on the second floor, the descent was uneventful.

         Matt set Dennis down on the third step from the bottom, leaning him sideways against the wall, and pushed the metal bar that opened the emergency door to the parking lot. He half expected an alarm to sound, but none did. He was reminded of his dream. "I'll be right back, Den. I'm going to get the car and move it closer," Matt said.

         "Wait. Put something in the door...your wallet," Dennis suggested. "To keep it from closing. I don't have the strength to open it for you from this side."

         Moments later Matt had Dennis propped on the passenger side of the front seat. In the daylight, Dennis's skin was the gray of hamburger meat left at room temperature for several days. A quick stop to rent a wheelchair and they were off to the ball park.

         "Who're we playing?" Matt asked, fiddling with the air-conditioner.

         "Twins. We shouldn't have any trouble getting seats. After the Rangers' record the past couple of seasons people are staying away in droves,” Dennis said.

         Matt parked as close to the stadium as possible, got the wheelchair from the trunk, and lifted Dennis into the conveyance. The portable oxygen tank, resting in Dennis’s lap, whispered air through the tube into Dennis's lungs.

         "Sure you want to do this, Den?"

         Dennis nodded and pointed toward the stadium like a trail boss getting the wagons under way.

         A heavy sadness fell over Matt as he realized this would probably be the last ball game his friend would ever attend.

         Tickets were bought and Matt wheeled Dennis to the outfield seats they both loved. Leaving the chair at the top of the deck, Matt carried Dennis down to the front row and settled him into the seat next to the end. The end seat Matt took for himself.

         Batting practice was just ending and the field crew was doing their final touch- ups before the start of the first game. "Jesus. May in Texas. Is there anything nicer?" Dennis said, catching Matt looking at his watch. "You late for a date, buddy?"

         "Naw. I just didn't tell Brenda I was going to be gone all day."

         "Go call her."

         Matt inhaled a deep breath--felt a freedom he hadn't experienced in years. "Screw her." Matt swallowed noisily. “If she complains, I’ll kick her in her balls. They used to be mine but somewhere along the line she hacked them off and kept them for herself." Although he said it jokingly, Matt suddenly realized it was true. Brenda could be an emasculating bitch.

         "I’ve missed you, Den. You and I were closer than brothers and I let that closeness slip away over one pretty little gal from Alabama who is, God knows, prejudiced against everybody. Who has me so pussy-whipped I can't spend a day at the ball game without feeling guilty."

         Dennis snorted. "Please don't expect me to defend her. I live with memories of the nights you and I spent at each other's houses when we were teenagers. Sneaking over the fence at the drive-in movie, B-B gun fights at the Christmas tree lot after they closed for the night...shit, man, we used to play cream-the-corners. Remember? First one to get his rocks off won. You'd drag out a dog-eared girlie magazine and whack off to Miss March while I . . . while I whacked off watching you. You didn't know that did you?"

         Matt's mouth hung open. This revelation caught him by surprise and he felt himself blush with the new knowledge. “I didn't think you ever felt that way about me."

         A mischievous grin split Dennis's face. "Always. Never stopped. But I knew it would end our friendship if I ever came on to you. Every time you kissed Brenda I wanted to kill the bitch. Those were kisses she was stealing from me."

         Dennis began to cough. For five solid minutes he hacked and gasped, despite the pure oxygen flowing through the plastic tube into his nostrils. When the coughing finally subsided he was exhausted. He closed his eyes. "I'll rest before the game starts, Matt. Save my energy for later."

         "Do you want anything? Beer? Hot dog?"

         "If you want to make me spew, just keep talking," Dennis said. He scooted down in his seat, adjusted the strap over his head to hold the oxygen tube in place, then leaned his head on Matt's shoulder. In seconds, Matt could hear him snoring.

         The first game, dominated by Minnesota, was nearly over when Dennis stirred. He reached up and touched his head. "Where'd I get the cap?"

         "I got it from a vendor. You were getting sunburned," Matt told him. "The first game is about over. Got our butts kicked."

         Dennis nodded. "Feel that breeze? Just like I remembered it," Dennis sighed. "The sun will be dropping down behind home plate in a little while and the lights will come on. We'll win the next one."

         Matt looked at Dennis. His lips were dry, cracked. When he put out his tongue to moisten them, it, too, was dry, caked with a spongy white coating of fungus. He seemed even smaller than when they arrived at the game. "How about a soft drink?" Matt asked.

         "Naw. I'll take that beer now, though," Dennis said, his eyes straining to remain open. "Hear the guy shouting 'Co’ beer! Ice co’ beer!' He'll be here in a minute."

         Matt looked around. There were no vendors anywhere close.

         "Is anyone trying to get the "Wave" started, Matt?"

         Matt put his arm around Dennis's narrow shoulders. "Yeah. There's a bunch of guys to the right of us who look like they tried to chug all the beer in Texas," Matt lied. "They're standing up and waving their arms, then sitting down again. No one is paying them any mind, though."

         "Just like I remembered it. So peaceful. So comfortable. There was only one thing that would have made it completely perfect back then..." Dennis said wistfully.

         Hot tears sprang to Matt's eyes. He touched Dennis's sunken cheek with his fingertips and drew his friend's unresisting face toward him. Matt's quivering lips met Dennis’s fevered forehead, kissed him tenderly. "I love you, Dennis," Matt said, looking directly into Dennis's moist brown eyes.

         Dennis seemed to melt back, into his seat. A tiny, peaceful smile lifted the corners of his mouth; fixed itself to his gray lips. He pulled in a labored, shuddering breath that seemed to swell his emaciated chest. A whispered exhalation escaped from deep within his defeated lungs. He became still.

         Matt gathered his old friend to his chest. He sobbed silently as hot tears traced a path down his cheeks and the cool evening breeze rose up to dry them. Not a bad place to die, Matt decided. Not a bad place at all.

         The second game was beginning.

         Brenda would be furious.

         Matt stayed until the end.

The End

DMM