Chapter 14. Seth
Is there anything like a cold beer in a thirty-dollar novelty cup at a baseball game? What is it about that translucent hard plastic that makes beer taste so much better? So crisp. So fun. So American. And not the bad, dog-whistle kind of American. The America’s pastime, Fourth of July, peanut shells on the floor of the ballpark, type of American.
The only problem with novelty cups is the difficulty of carrying two of them, plus a giant tub of popcorn and a hot pretzel with extra mustard, back to the stands. Especially at a playoff game where everyone is screaming and stomping and jubilantly (or despairingly) bumping into one another.
I bid good day to the cheery concession stand worker, balance the pretzel over the popcorn, pinch two beers by the rim in my other hand, and begin my Herculean trek back to my seat.
I am lucky. It is a very, very good seat. Even though I am rooting for, some might say, the wrong team.
I am at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles, cheering on the Chicago Cubs in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series. Whoever wins goes to the World Series. It’s the sixth inning. The game is tied, 2–2. I am losing my mind. I had to leave and get snacks so I don’t have a stroke.
My seat is approximately thirty steps down a narrow staircase, so I’m panicking a little about how to maneuver past the throng of highly charged fans. I feel vulnerable yet proud in my Cubs jersey. I know Dodger fans will throw popcorn, or worse, at me as I descend. I need to be physically and emotionally prepared. I take a deep breath.
“Seth!” someone calls from behind me. I pause but do not turn my head, because if I do I will spill something, and besides, all the people I know at this game are down in our seats. Surely no one is talking to me.
I take a few more precarious steps, pretzel wobbling on its perch.
A finger taps my shoulder.
I slowly turn around to see my high school friend Gloria and her wife, Emily.
Somehow, somehow, I manage not to spill my haul of concessions on any passersby as I say hello.
“I knew it was you,” Gloria said. “I’d recognize those ears anywhere.”
My big stupid ears are indeed recognizable. And I just got a haircut, emphasizing my least comely feature. Which is fine, as I don’t think my levels of physical hotness are particularly pertinent to two married lesbians. One of whom, I notice, is quite a bit pregnant.
“You’re expecting!” I squeal. “Congratulations!”
Emily puts a hand on her belly. “Twin boys. Can you even?”
I can even, as they will be wonderful parents. And I cannot help but experience a small pang of vindication that they have bonded their union by starting a family—as it aligns with a bet I made with a certain woman who shall not be named.
“You two will destroy parenting,” I say.
“Is that a good thing?” Gloria asks.
“So good,” I assure her.
“What brings you here?” Emily asks.
“The Cubs, obviously,” Gloria says, gesturing at my jersey. “This rat has the nerve to root for the enemy on our turf, and not even call to say he’s in town.”
“Horrible man,” Emily agrees.
“I’m sorry!” I say. “I just got in this afternoon. I was going to text you, I swear. Do you think I don’t want to hang out by your pool overlooking the canyons?”
“How do you know we have a pool overlooking the canyons?” Gloria asks. “Are you stalking us?”
“Yes,” I say solemnly. “I actually live in a car outside your house. I have this telephoto camera that lets me see right through your windows.”
“Good,” Gloria says. “I was hoping for a reason to have you thrown in jail. Where all Cubs fans belong.”
I laugh, and it throws off my balance. I grip the plastic of my novelty beers harder. I can’t spill Coors Light on a pregnant lady.
“Who are you here with?” Emily asks.
“There you are,” a voice says from over my shoulder. “Sorry, the bathroom line was eleven point two million people long. Also the sinks are crusted in blue face paint.”
I careen around at the sound of that voice.
The pretzel flops onto my chest, smearing my shirt in mustard. I try to resettle it and the popcorn goes flying, raining down like edible confetti on myself and—who else?—Molly Marks.
“Fuck!” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”
One cup slips, and I try to catch it, but instead bat it in the air, spraying all eighteen ounces over the clavicle, cleavage, and Dodgers tee of a woman who told me to stop texting her after I told her I had feelings for her.
Spectacular.
Molly stands there, shocked and silent, for about fifteen seconds. And then she looks down at the beer dripping into her bra, dabs a drop with her finger and delicately puts it to her tongue.
“Hmmm,” she says. “Taste of the Rockies?”
“Oh my God,” I moan, unsure what to do to help this situation, as my hands are covered in mustard.
“I would have pegged you for an IPA man,” Molly says, dripping.
“They don’t have it in the collectible cups,” I say, wanting to actually weep.
“I’ll go get you some napkins,” Gloria says. She darts off toward the snack bar.
“Do you want me to help you wash off in the bathroom?” Emily asks Molly.
Molly laughs. “I’m afraid the public restrooms at Dodger Stadium are not equipped with showers. But it’s fine. I enjoy smelling like the bar. It reminds me of my youth.”
“Molly, I cannot apologize enough,” I say. “I’m going to buy you a new shirt.”
“Yeah, and maybe also yourself one,” she says.
I look down at my mustard-stained torso. “Why is it that whenever I get near you I find myself smothered in condiments?”
“Oh, the mustard’s fine. I was referring to your Cubs jersey. You’ll be taking that off as your punishment for ruining my outfit.”
Gloria returns with the napkins and hands them to Molly, who begins cleaning herself up.
“Don’t worry about me,” Molly tells her. “You’ll miss the beginning of the seventh. Seth here is going to give me carte blanche at the Dodgers merch store. I’ll meet you back at the seats.”
“Seth, I’ll text you,” Gloria says. “We’re having a baby shower on Saturday. If you’re still in town you should come.”
“I’d love to,” I say miserably.
“Don’t cry,” Molly says with mock solemnity. “You’re going to get through this. Come on.”
She grabs my hand and starts leading me through the crowd along the curved walkway of the stadium toward, I assume, the gift shop. The intimacy of this gesture confuses me. Which is not to say I don’t like it.
“So why are you here, anyway?” she asks.
“To watch the Cubs beat the Dodgers.”
“No chance.”
“Want to bet?”
“I don’t gamble.”
“Except on your friends’ relationships.”
She frowns. “I suppose you must feel quite smug. Two to zero. For now.”
I’m confused. “Uh, what?”
“Well, Emily and Gloria seem quite happy and are with child. And Marcus and Marian are always posting lovey-dovey updates on Facebook.”
I smile the way a man does when a person he feels mild animosity toward does not know something he does.
“Molly, Marian is in a relationship, but it’s not with Marcus.”
“Oh. Then who is it?”
I squint out at the game on a nearby flatscreen and locate the Cubs’ star outfielder. A ball comes flying at him and he leaps and catches it right against the stadium wall. The camera zooms in on his handsome face, grinning.
“That guy,” I say, pointing.
Molly cocks her head like a confused parrot. “Javier Ruiz?”
“Yep,” I say.
“You have to be fucking kidding me. Isn’t that guy worth like two hundred million dollars?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Okay, wait. How does Marian even know a professional baseball player?”
“Marcus introduced them. He’s Javier’s agent.”
“Jesus Christ. But she doesn’t even live in Chicago.”
“They’re long-distance.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’m here with her. She invited me because she knows I’m a huge Cubs fan.”
“You’re here with Marian Hart?”
“Yes. Who is a lovely, generous, thoughtful person kind enough to think of me. It’s quite an experience, being here with the team. Did you know there’s a whole suite for the visiting team with free drinks and catering? I had prime rib and a Manhattan before the game.”
“Well, good for you. And good for Marian. I would fuck that guy right into the ground.”
I try not to choke at the thought of this.
“I thought you were a Dodgers fan,” I say.
“I can be bought.”
We arrive at the merchandise store, crammed wall-to-wall with Dodgers paraphernalia.
“Anything you want, Marks,” I say. “On me.”
She takes her time perusing this and that, showily checking the price tags and declaring things like, “No, no, not expensive enough.”
I stand sheepishly in my mustard-covered Cubs jersey, watching people eye me with hostility, confusion, and mirth.
She finally comes to me with her selections: a hoodie (“it might get cold later—this is the desert!”), a jersey (“this color looks great on me”), a baseball cap (“it’s too bright out”), four key chains (“for my cousins in Iowa”) and two T-shirts: one a men’s large and one a women’s small.
“One for you and one for me.”
“Molly, I’m not wearing a Dodgers shirt.”
“Yes you are. It’s your punishment for pouring beer all over me.”
“An accident.”
“It’s not the intent, it’s the harm.”
“I’m literally sitting with the families of the team. As the guest of the star outfielder.”
“Well, explain to them that you’re being gallant.”
I sigh. I suppose I can wear the shirt backward and inside out.
I take her selections to the register and proffer my credit card to the tune of $473.12.
“So,” I say as I hand her the bulging bag. “How are you?”
“Me? Fine, fine. You know. Writer’s life. Just type, type, typing away. And you?”
“I’m great. Thanks so much for asking.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No, enthusiastic. You wouldn’t be familiar.”
I’m trying to be casual, but I feel awkward. What do you say to a person who has flatly stated they don’t want to speak to you? Has she forgotten?
“Well, um, we should probably go change,” I say. “It was nice to see you.”
She furrows her brow. “You aren’t going to invite me down to see Marian?”
I furrow my brow back. “You don’t… like Marian.”
“But I like you,” she says, stopping my heart.
She seems taken aback that she said that—like it just slipped out.
It still robs me of breath.
“Uh, well. We’re in section H, row thirty-one, by the aisle. The ones wearing Cubs shirts and getting booed. Come say hi if you want.”