to the nearest diner, where he sat with a cup of coffee while the boy wolfed down meatloaf and gravy, mashed potatoes, zucchini, salad, and coconut custard pie.
Grayson had a way of jumping into a subject without warning; it was during Maniac's dessert that he abruptly said, "Them black people, they eat mashed potatoes, too?"
Maniac thought he was kidding, then realized he wasn't. "Sure. Mrs. Beale used to have potatoes a lot, mashed and every other way."
"Mrs. who?"
"Mrs. Beale. Do you know the Beales? Of seven twenty-eight Sycamore Street?"
The old man shook his head.
"Well, they were my family. I had a mother and father and a little brother and sister and a sister my age and a dog. My own room, too."
Grayson stared out the diner window, as if digesting this information. "How 'bout meatloaf?"
"Huh?"
"They eat that, too?"
"Sure, meatloaf too. And peas. And corn. You name it."
"Cake?"
Maniac beamed. "Oh, man! You kidding? Mrs. Beale makes the best cakes in the world."
Grayson's eyes narrowed. "Toothbrushes? They use them?"
Maniac fought not to smile. "Absolutely. We all had our toothbrushes hanging in the bathroom."
"I know that," said Grayson, impatient, "but is theirs the same? As ours?"
"No difference that I could see."
"You didn't drink out the same glass."
"Absolutely, we did."
This information seemed to shock the old man.
Maniac laid down his fork. "Grayson, they're just regular people, like us."
"I was never in a house of theirs."
"Well, I'm telling you, it's the same. There's bathtubs and refrigerators and rugs and TVs and beds..."
Grayson was wagging his head. "Ain't that somethin'... ain't that somethin'..."
It was after dark when they got back to the baseball equipment room. The worm in Grayson's head had long since ceased to be a tiny tickle; it was now a maddening itch. As with all such itch-worms, it would exit by only one route, the mouth. He said: "Uh, I was thinkin', uh, maybe you want to come over to my place. This here floor's pretty hard." He tapped his foot to show how hard.
The grizzled, gray old parkhand could never know how much Maniac was tempted, or how deeply the offer touched him. Neither could Maniac explain that the bad luck he always seemed to have with parents had led him to the conclusion that he'd better stick to himself.
"Oh, it's not so bad here," he said. "Look --- " He lay down on the chest protectors and closed his eyes. "Ah... just like a mattress. I can feel myself dozing off already." And then, not wanting to hurt the old man's feelings, he quickly added, "Hey, I told you everything about me. How about you?" He pulled Grayson's coat over himself. "A bedtime story."
Grayson snorted. "Story? I don't know no stories."
"Sure you do," Maniac prodded. "About yourself. You know about you. Everybody has a story."'
"Not me." Grayson was edging for the door. "I ain't got no story. I ain't nobody. I work at the park."
"You line baseball fields?"
"Yep. I do that."
"You live at the Y. You drive the park pickup. You like butterscotch Krimpets."
Grayson shook his head. "Not as much as you. I was just eating 'em to be friendly, so's you wouldn't have to eat 'em all by yourself."
"And there's another thing about you." Maniac joked. "You're a liar."
They both laughed.
Grayson opened the door.
"Wait---" called Maniac. "What did you want to grow up to be when you were a kid?"
Grayson paused in the doorway. He looked out into the night. "A baseball player," he said. He turned out the light and closed the door.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 25
In the morning Grayson bought Maniac an Egg McMuffin and a large orange juice. He bought the same thing for himself, so they ate breakfast together in the baseball equipment room.
"You sent me to bed without a story last night," Maniac kidded.
Grayson brushed a yellow speck of egg from his white stubble. "I don't got no stories. I told you."
"You wanted to be a baseball player."
"That ain't no story."
"Well,
Grayson had a way of jumping into a subject without warning; it was during Maniac's dessert that he abruptly said, "Them black people, they eat mashed potatoes, too?"
Maniac thought he was kidding, then realized he wasn't. "Sure. Mrs. Beale used to have potatoes a lot, mashed and every other way."
"Mrs. who?"
"Mrs. Beale. Do you know the Beales? Of seven twenty-eight Sycamore Street?"
The old man shook his head.
"Well, they were my family. I had a mother and father and a little brother and sister and a sister my age and a dog. My own room, too."
Grayson stared out the diner window, as if digesting this information. "How 'bout meatloaf?"
"Huh?"
"They eat that, too?"
"Sure, meatloaf too. And peas. And corn. You name it."
"Cake?"
Maniac beamed. "Oh, man! You kidding? Mrs. Beale makes the best cakes in the world."
Grayson's eyes narrowed. "Toothbrushes? They use them?"
Maniac fought not to smile. "Absolutely. We all had our toothbrushes hanging in the bathroom."
"I know that," said Grayson, impatient, "but is theirs the same? As ours?"
"No difference that I could see."
"You didn't drink out the same glass."
"Absolutely, we did."
This information seemed to shock the old man.
Maniac laid down his fork. "Grayson, they're just regular people, like us."
"I was never in a house of theirs."
"Well, I'm telling you, it's the same. There's bathtubs and refrigerators and rugs and TVs and beds..."
Grayson was wagging his head. "Ain't that somethin'... ain't that somethin'..."
It was after dark when they got back to the baseball equipment room. The worm in Grayson's head had long since ceased to be a tiny tickle; it was now a maddening itch. As with all such itch-worms, it would exit by only one route, the mouth. He said: "Uh, I was thinkin', uh, maybe you want to come over to my place. This here floor's pretty hard." He tapped his foot to show how hard.
The grizzled, gray old parkhand could never know how much Maniac was tempted, or how deeply the offer touched him. Neither could Maniac explain that the bad luck he always seemed to have with parents had led him to the conclusion that he'd better stick to himself.
"Oh, it's not so bad here," he said. "Look --- " He lay down on the chest protectors and closed his eyes. "Ah... just like a mattress. I can feel myself dozing off already." And then, not wanting to hurt the old man's feelings, he quickly added, "Hey, I told you everything about me. How about you?" He pulled Grayson's coat over himself. "A bedtime story."
Grayson snorted. "Story? I don't know no stories."
"Sure you do," Maniac prodded. "About yourself. You know about you. Everybody has a story."'
"Not me." Grayson was edging for the door. "I ain't got no story. I ain't nobody. I work at the park."
"You line baseball fields?"
"Yep. I do that."
"You live at the Y. You drive the park pickup. You like butterscotch Krimpets."
Grayson shook his head. "Not as much as you. I was just eating 'em to be friendly, so's you wouldn't have to eat 'em all by yourself."
"And there's another thing about you." Maniac joked. "You're a liar."
They both laughed.
Grayson opened the door.
"Wait---" called Maniac. "What did you want to grow up to be when you were a kid?"
Grayson paused in the doorway. He looked out into the night. "A baseball player," he said. He turned out the light and closed the door.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 25
In the morning Grayson bought Maniac an Egg McMuffin and a large orange juice. He bought the same thing for himself, so they ate breakfast together in the baseball equipment room.
"You sent me to bed without a story last night," Maniac kidded.
Grayson brushed a yellow speck of egg from his white stubble. "I don't got no stories. I told you."
"You wanted to be a baseball player."
"That ain't no story."
"Well,
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