When I saw him at the door, I thought it was my imagination.
Everyone tells me I'm obsessed with baseball and my hometown team. They're right, of course. If Moose Gallagher is pitching that night, I'll set my alarm that morning for 8:35 because he's number thirty-five. I microwave my coffee for 3:12 instead of three minutes because it's three hundred and twelve feet to the left field foul pole from home plate.
So I was pretty pissed when my boss called to tell me I had to work that night. “No way, Charlie,” I told him. “It's a Thursday. You don't need me. And the White Sox are in town."
"It's a zoo in here,” Charlie said, and I could hear a lot of noise through the phone. “And Stella called in sick."
"What about Charise?"
"Stuck with her kids. Come on, Mel, I need you."
"You know we're playing the White Sox tonight,” I reminded him again. I had plans to cozy up with my HD TV.
I could hear him blowing air out of the side of his mouth. “I'll buy you tickets to tomorrow night's game."
I was already getting my uniform out of the closet, but I couldn't let him off too easy. “I think that game's sold out. Besides, aren't I working tomorrow?"
"I've got tickets,” he said, and I could hear the cringe in his voice. “Box seats. They're yours. I'll work your shift."
Charlie must have been desperate. He's the biggest fan I know, next to me. The restaurant biz is hell on us—we're always working during games. I try to work the lunch shift as much as possible during baseball season, but it didn't always work out. Like that night.
So I grabbed my uniform.
Charlie did not lie, it was a zoo. I was so busy with orders I didn't even get a minute to stand by the radio in the kitchen to find out the score.
Still, it must have been some time after nine when this guy who looked exactly like our second baseman came into Charlie's. I thought it had to be either uncanny resemblance or my imagination, because the game was still in progress. But no, Mac Donahue was standing there, alone.
I'd always heard he lived somewhere in the city, but I'd never actually seen him on the street. A friend of mine saw him on the subway one night after a game, right there on the platform. And now, there he was.
I pulled the heavy, leather-covered menu out of its holder at the hostess stand. “Just one?” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Especially since he was wearing such a long face.
"Just one,” he answered. A little smile tried to peek out at me, but he looked troubled.
"Follow me, please.” Fortunately I had a table for two in the back, up two steps and behind the polished brass rail. He took the seat against the wall and then the menu from my hand. “Do you want to start with something from the bar?"
He shook his head.
"I'll be back in a little bit,” I told him. “It's kind of hairy in here tonight."
"Tough night all around,” he said, but he didn't seem to say it to me, or anyone in particular, and I was dying to know what he meant. Then he looked right at me and said, “No rush."
I didn't often hear his voice on TV. I guess I had forgotten he was from Texas, but he had that very soft, high drawl—a lot like an old lover of mine, now that I thought about it.
When I came back to the table, it wasn't as much later as it might have been. But come on, did you think I was going to let a famous ballplayer sit there for too long, and maybe walk out? Charlie'd never forgive me. I hadn't told him “Donny” was there yet, either—Charlie was swamped at the bar.
I took a deep breath as I approached the table. He was staring into space when I said, “Do you know what you'd like?"
He looked up and there was that almost-smile again. He looked like he was going to answer the question with an unusual remark, but maybe that was my imagination again. I could just imagine him saying something like, “Yeah, I'd like to kiss you.” Or something. But he took a deep breath and said, “Could I have
Everyone tells me I'm obsessed with baseball and my hometown team. They're right, of course. If Moose Gallagher is pitching that night, I'll set my alarm that morning for 8:35 because he's number thirty-five. I microwave my coffee for 3:12 instead of three minutes because it's three hundred and twelve feet to the left field foul pole from home plate.
So I was pretty pissed when my boss called to tell me I had to work that night. “No way, Charlie,” I told him. “It's a Thursday. You don't need me. And the White Sox are in town."
"It's a zoo in here,” Charlie said, and I could hear a lot of noise through the phone. “And Stella called in sick."
"What about Charise?"
"Stuck with her kids. Come on, Mel, I need you."
"You know we're playing the White Sox tonight,” I reminded him again. I had plans to cozy up with my HD TV.
I could hear him blowing air out of the side of his mouth. “I'll buy you tickets to tomorrow night's game."
I was already getting my uniform out of the closet, but I couldn't let him off too easy. “I think that game's sold out. Besides, aren't I working tomorrow?"
"I've got tickets,” he said, and I could hear the cringe in his voice. “Box seats. They're yours. I'll work your shift."
Charlie must have been desperate. He's the biggest fan I know, next to me. The restaurant biz is hell on us—we're always working during games. I try to work the lunch shift as much as possible during baseball season, but it didn't always work out. Like that night.
So I grabbed my uniform.
Charlie did not lie, it was a zoo. I was so busy with orders I didn't even get a minute to stand by the radio in the kitchen to find out the score.
Still, it must have been some time after nine when this guy who looked exactly like our second baseman came into Charlie's. I thought it had to be either uncanny resemblance or my imagination, because the game was still in progress. But no, Mac Donahue was standing there, alone.
I'd always heard he lived somewhere in the city, but I'd never actually seen him on the street. A friend of mine saw him on the subway one night after a game, right there on the platform. And now, there he was.
I pulled the heavy, leather-covered menu out of its holder at the hostess stand. “Just one?” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Especially since he was wearing such a long face.
"Just one,” he answered. A little smile tried to peek out at me, but he looked troubled.
"Follow me, please.” Fortunately I had a table for two in the back, up two steps and behind the polished brass rail. He took the seat against the wall and then the menu from my hand. “Do you want to start with something from the bar?"
He shook his head.
"I'll be back in a little bit,” I told him. “It's kind of hairy in here tonight."
"Tough night all around,” he said, but he didn't seem to say it to me, or anyone in particular, and I was dying to know what he meant. Then he looked right at me and said, “No rush."
I didn't often hear his voice on TV. I guess I had forgotten he was from Texas, but he had that very soft, high drawl—a lot like an old lover of mine, now that I thought about it.
When I came back to the table, it wasn't as much later as it might have been. But come on, did you think I was going to let a famous ballplayer sit there for too long, and maybe walk out? Charlie'd never forgive me. I hadn't told him “Donny” was there yet, either—Charlie was swamped at the bar.
I took a deep breath as I approached the table. He was staring into space when I said, “Do you know what you'd like?"
He looked up and there was that almost-smile again. He looked like he was going to answer the question with an unusual remark, but maybe that was my imagination again. I could just imagine him saying something like, “Yeah, I'd like to kiss you.” Or something. But he took a deep breath and said, “Could I have
Similar Books
