Overall Vision

So why write in a genre this narrow? Surely I would be deluded if I told you I sought commercial success. Mainstream sci fi writers are already doing poorly enough, most of them.
Consider the case of the American cowboys of the late 1800's. Surely you would be hard pressed to find people less worthy of heroic status in culture. Between infrequent baths and clothes washing, drinking, visiting hookers and an overindulgence in gunplay, they were hardly choirboys. And yet, between novels, TV shows and movies, what is their image now?
Ok, I don't mean Afghan women and girls would ever achieve that level of culture hero success. I just use it as an example, to illustrate the concept.

Table of Contents can be found by scrolling down.

Vydia 6

Three months into the siege I'm getting ready for school Friday morning. I spot a half dozen men from the mosque, the sober set, carrying folding chairs and picnic sets.
No one has to tell me what is happening. If Fatima's father has one ounce of dignity left, these guys will be gone in a few minutes. If not, they'll be there all day.
An invitation, come with us to the mosque today. Give it one more chance before you give up on life.
Furtively looking out the window so Mum won't see, I observe. In two minutes it is over. Warm smiles and handshakes all around, the men trek cheerfully back.
One of those men is uncle to Ahmad, in my class. Monday morning, I see the boys gathered around Ahmad as he quietly relates a story.
In due course I will hear from Derek.
As Fatima heads for the washroom, he approaches quietly, "hear what happened at Fatima's?"
"I could guess."
"One visit, that's all it took. Felt the fellowship, said he would go regularly. And amend his ways."
"What a relief!"
"We've kind of drifted apart. Suppose we could ah?"
"Yes we could!"
As Fatima returns, the pressure drops to zero, no more fear of roommating. Now I can relax around her.
I feel my determination stiffening. Hey, why not? She and I could win scholarships to President's College for Girls in Georgetown, for Grade 7 to 12. Miles ahead of the rest here.
She must have spotted the steel in my eye. Smiles, quietly says, "right, Christmas exams, let's you and I bury these people alive."

Vydia 5

I'm morose as I walk out the door. Fatima jumps on me. I wish she would just go away.
The boys have a football game going. Sunil, an unknown quantity, is in goal. As I watch, he makes a rather brilliant stop. His teammates cheer loudly.
I don't really want to look at Fatima, so I watch the game.
"So what happened to your father?"
"On a gold dredge on the Mazaruni River, in the north west."
"That's a dangerous job?"
"He didn't die dredging. All drunk, poker game, argument, stabbing."
"Why was he working there? You have a store."
"Fatima, years ago the store did better, lotsa vid rentals. The PPP, Puritan Peoples' Party came to power, banned almost everything produced for adults. Only films they let in are Disney and Disney-type from America and children's films from India."
"So that's why that store is 1/4 vids, 3/4 used books. Do they censor books?"
"Almost nothing is banned, even politics they disagree with. Only sex upsets them."
"They check books for that?"
"No, cost too much time and money. Only pictures offend them, not text."
The bell rings. Sunil has put on a fabulous show, stopping three certain goals, is loudly cheered by his buddies. It really is that easy for boys, I reflect, absorb a new one easily.
Rest of these girls pretend not to notice Fatima and I are even alive.
As we head back, she asks quietly, "why are the girls like that?"
"Like what?"
"Rude, cold. Why?"
"Listen when you hear the names called. I'm the only girl with a traditional Indian name. Rest are named after movie or soap opera stars. View me as very old fashioned."
She smiles warmly, "we do have something in common, traditional name."
At lunchtime, the three of us are walking home. Derek starts uneasily, "sorry Vydia, gonna cancel our study session today."
You roach, I think uncharitably, how brain dead can you get. Shoulda said this privately.
"See it's like this, everyone wants Sunil to get a good start. After school, another game, want him to make friends you know."
I reflect bitterly that is how a man or boy is. The one day friendship takes precedence over ours of three years. Still, if I ever dared to say that, he'd be bigtime sniffy. We're just supposed to be understanding.
Fatima jumps right in, "well then, I'll come with you."
Inspiration strikes, kill two birds with one stone. Get Mum off my back and dump her after school.
"You wouldn't like it, too boring."
"How so?"
"Be there for an hour, maybe hour and a half. Dead time of day, almost no customers. She is nagging me to finish inventory. Terrible boring job."
"It is? Tell me about it."
"Two racks to finish, Historical Romance and Harlequin. I loathe both with an absolute passion. Don't mind doing westerns or mystery or sci fi or"
"So what is the job?"
"I hafta look at each individual book. Pick out any that look shopworn, set them aside. Mum will decide whether to mark down. Take inventory at retail price, means copying hundreds of prices. Mum gets the easy part, run a tape."
"So if I helped, what would I do?"
"You'd hate it, so deathly boring. I have to view them, I'd know what Mum is likely to mark down. I'd call prices, you'd write til your hand is sore."
"Good, I'll be there, more fun than my house."
I stare into the distance, see the heat haze shimmer the sights. What on earth do you do about someone like that? How can you say no, yet still not offend a foreigner?
We get both racks done. Now I feel free as a bird, it was the only thing Mum was nagging me about. Mum invites Fatima to stay for supper, after she has phoned home.
It's pumpkin again. The way we sit, I don't get to pull the pitcher stunt. On top of that, Fatima likes the pumpkin.
I soon see the boys' plan toward Sunil. Mere social acceptance - mere fitting in - forget that. They are going all the way. They will make him happy, forget the family tragedy which brought him here.
Their imagination is staggering, beyond any and all belief.
Second school day is windy, a rarity in Guyana. They all fly kites, show him Guyanese construction methods.
Swimming the next day.
Day after, a trek to the old sugar mill, abandoned since Antiquity, to explore.
Sea wall.
Tour of a rice farm.
Public library.
Rental of an Indian vid.
Tour of a bakery.
Endless dinner invitations. Parents all like him, polite, well-mannered.
I'm happy to see him fit in. I'm happy to see the sheer generosity of spirit which drives the boys to these good deeds.
But I'm also jealous. My friend Derek has vanished, doesn't know I'm alive.
Fatima clings with the determination usually associated with tropical foot fungus. She is unshakable, every school day, til supper time. And since Mum won't let me go out and about after supper, means I'm a virtual prisoner.
That itself, I could cope with. But every time I see Fatima's face, 100 times a day, the roommate thought dogs me.
And every time I see that mother of hers coming to visit Mum, my heart goes into palpitations. Is this It?
Fatima's father settles into the pattern of lotsa drunks here. Couple days work, drink a day or two.
As week follows week trapped in this science fiction stasis field, I am becoming a nervous wreck.
Signposts start flashing by. Derek's marks in quizzes and mini-exams take a nose dive. Sunil, he doesn't have a hope, of passing even.
My marks are higher than ever, must be all that bitten energy. Fatima is coming second in almost everything.
Hmm, so the journey is unpleasant, but productive.
As for the girls, they have not wavered one iota in their attitude. They still act as if Fatima and I do not exist. So the good example of the boys cuts no ice with them.

Vydia 4

During all the commotion, I still have enough presence of mind to watch both Sunil and Fatima. Fatima looked happy finding out I would be her partner; uptight when it was in question; then relieved. Sunil, the emotions were stronger. He's scared to death. There has to be some tragedy explaining his family return from the USA.
Irritated as I am, I still feel sympathy for Derek. He has a job as bad or worse than mine.
As others start the tentative process of pairing off, I show Fatima the workbooks and texts on the shelves. Derek starts the same with Sunil.
By morning recess bell, I am actually just a bit relieved. No doubt thanks to her important mother, Fatima's English reading skills are where they should be.
As everyone rushes out the door, Mrs Beharry intercepts me. Fatima waits outside the door with the look of a condor.
Uneasy smile, "sorry I had to do that. My duty."
I nod. Pointless to argue with grownups.
"I wanted to talk of a more personal matter. How is the tone in your house following the death of your father?"
"Truth is ma'am, I don't know."
"Don't know?"
"Can't say if it would be the same as others? Or worse?"
"So your mother is difficult to deal with?"
"Ma'am she always was. Now just more so."
"Let's start with basics, a year of grief. Whether he was good bad or ugly as a husband, the year is fairly universal."
I nod.
"Manner of death has an impact. Suppose it were predictable, an illness that takes a period of time. Easier to cope with, to adjust. A sudden death, harder, a shock. Suppose it were a noble death, like hero dies trying to save child. Again, easier to cope. Any death well as well as stupid as your father's, much harder to cope with."
I nod.
"So put up with her. Stay out of argument. I'm here if you need a sympathetic ear."
"Thank you ma'am."

Vydia 3

Three days later, I return from editing to find Mum in a pensive mood, "you ok Mum?"
"Fatima's Mum came to visit me in the store. She's really worried. Husband hasn't come out of Ramroop's in three days and nights."
"Mum look at the bright side. By now his motor skills are zero. She's big enough, one punch could send him into dreamland if he tries anything."
"You really are getting to be a smarty pants. Wonder which relative you're taking after?"
Go on, gentle reader, just guess who that might be.
"After supper honey, time to clean your room. Hasn't been done in a donkey's age."
The word "donkey" sends me into howls of laughter.
"After all, you might get that roommate soon. What is so funny about cleaning your room?"
"Mum it's a kid thing. You wouldn't understand."
We've just started cleaning when Fatima's Mum shows. Obviously one who believes children should be seen and not heard. Shows Mum a palm pilot, "well, least I know why he's been drinking for three days."
Mum smiles gently, "you really should look at the bright side."
"There IS a bright side? Enlighten me."
"If he were Guyanese, people would laugh at him. But foreigners, it's a taboo on the Guyanese psyche, deathly afraid of offending foreigners. There are lots of men in Ramroop's who would think that's a huge joke. But not one of them would ever say anything about it when he's in there."
"You really think so?"
"I am Guyanese."
She leaves, looking convinced, but not 100% so.
Derek and I are ready for our first day of school. Mum says, "Vydia honey, come straight home after school today. I need to go to the market."
"Yes Mum."
"When you're in the store, you can study, do homework, with Derek if you like. But only when no customers are in. It wouldn't look good. Besides they could ah..."
She means shoplift of course.
As we set out, Derek pulls a face, "she always repeat herself?"
"You don't know the half of it. Got the Reader's Digest condensed version because you were there."
"Vydia what do you hear on Mrs Beharry?"
"Kind, tolerant. Race, religion, level of stupidity mean nothing, she shows endless patience. But not with laziness."
He blushes, "yeah, gotta watch my step."
I laugh, "look around, there are as many lazy girls as boys."
He gasps, "and now you're joking?"
"Nope. Boys, they get deathly tired of women pushing them around. It becomes rebellion, get way too obvious."
"And girls?"
"They keep it sneaky. Don't brag to their friends."
"And you indulge?"
"Of course. Difference is I don't brag about it, like you do."
"They say the old bat makes you divide up into pairs. You and me, better stick together."
"Sure."
Earnest smile, "you got a real talent. Can make me produce without getting me huffy. Mum and teachers, can't do that."
I laugh.
"But don't think I'd grow up and marry you. Too sneaky, too manipulative, you'd end up ruling everything."
I give a loud mock groan, grab his collar, "is there someone awake in there? Are you for real? I have a newsflash for you. All women are so. So don't marry me, you'll just get the same somewhere else."
A serious look washes over him, "you are joking, and yet serious, both at the same time. Right?"
"You learn fast."
"Maybe I'll grow up and be gay instead."
I can't help it, I flinch.
"So you knew all along?"
I nod.
Derek and I are first to arrive. We won't sit up front with the sucks. Teachers get too demanding with that set, quick to use guilt and shame. Nor at back with the laugh it up set. Too many group detentions. Middle is just fine for us, side by side.
Fatima arrives next. Without one iota of hesitation, she slides in next to me. I groan inwardly. Gonna be a long year.
Everyone present, Mrs Beharry rises, "good morning class."
In unison, "good morning Mrs Beharry."
"When you came through that door, you ceased to be children. Now you're partly adult. We all know the law, school is compulsory to Grade 3. So everyone here is by free choice. Some, that would be your own free choice. Others, the free choice of your parents."
Some kids laugh nervously. I don't, sense danger.
"Over the years, we have tried everything. Almost no one functions well as a lone wolf. Groups of three break down into a pair and a loner. Groups of four break into two pairs. Only one concept has stood the test of time. You and a partner. We'll take today getting you paired off properly. For most of you, that will be a free choice. For four, it won't. Fatima, you are new to Guyana, deserve the best, you get Vydia. Sunil, parents returned from the States, Derek."
Derek's hand shoots up, "ma'am, I'd prefer Vydia."
Mrs Beharry turns to me, "your preference?"
"Derek ma'am."
"When we cruise too long on the highway we get sloppy, bad habits creep in. You two have been together so long, it's like a machine. Instead you'll take the hard road to the backdam. You'll learn material more thoroughly by drilling into your partner. Learn leadership skills, responsibility for others. You see the number one failing in intelligent people is easy cruising. It's why so few people reach their true potential in life. Both of you have greatness in you. It's my job to pull it out."
Derek's face clouds over.
Kinder tone, "I'm not saying you can't be friends. Once the bell rings, your choice. Just within these walls, you will do your duty."
He looks partly mollified.

Vydia 2

The food being ready, I pour myself and Mum each a glass of lime drink (made from fresh limes). Casually I place both pitcher and my glass where they will obscure Mum's view of my plate.
Anything less than six spoons full will bring a long enquiry about my health. But it's sticky, each time half of it sticks to the spoon. I elevate the serving dish just enough that Mum won't spot this. So instead of six, it's three spoons.
I tear bigger pieces off the roti (flat bread) and take less of the food with each piece of roti.
I'm almost done by the time Mum gets around to pouring herself a second glass.
As I rise to do dishes, I reflect it always works. But then, I use that stunt with pumpkin only. Rest of the time, I eat right.
Once she is outa sight, I pick out all the shrimp, eat them, consign the unlamented pumpkin remains to compost.
As I take breeze outside, Derek leans across the fence. He and I are like brother and sister, loyally stuck together through three years of doing homework together. Same sort of family problems, we relate exceptionally well. He's also more sensitive than most boys, so I suspect he's gay, but probably doesn't know yet.
"Have I got something way cool to show you!" he asserts, taking out his palm pilot.
"What?"
"You heard that silly Political down the street has a blog?"
"Yes."
"Looky!" touches a button, "ta da!"
I break into laughter, it is a closeup picture of a donkey's behind on top of a post. There is text in English and their language, the English stating the picture to be a portrait of the blogger.
Derek scrolls down, "way too cool. Not just the top post, did that to every post on his blog."
"Just a minute," I protest, "the comment spamming, anyone could do. But this, it is right inside his post. Meaning someone back in Kabul hacked into his blog. Would not be anyone here, we only know English and Hindi."
"Wait til I show the football guys."
He laughs, but I don't join. A vision comes. Whatever drinking this guy does, will get worse. A roommate? I sure hope not.
"You seem serious, sad."
"Derek, I swear to you this is bad news. I wish I could tell you, but Mum swore me to secrecy. Please, please do not show that blog around."
"So this kinda stuff explains why he is becoming one of the better customers of Ramroop's Rumshop?"
I nod.
"And if people here laugh at him, the drinking gets worse?"
I nod.
"Ok, I promise, our secret."

Vydia 1

(Arrival of an Afghan refugee family creates chaos in the life of a schoolgirl)

"Mrs Persaud," I ask, "to whom does that last 'she' refer?"
We're sitting side by side, so I can both see the text and hear her read aloud.
She places the cursor, "this one?"
I nod.
She starts again at the top of that paragraph. Gentle smile, "caught me again." Deletes "she" and enters a character's name; and not the one I would have thought.
"Come on Vydia, we're stiff and our eyes are getting sore. Let's go out on the balcony, have lemonade."
I prefer to stand, stretch a bit. Across is the empty lot, the now-bankrupt auto dealership. A group of boys, including her son Derek, is playing football (soccer).
I feel a surge of resentment. He does as well as I in school, surely ...
"Vydia dear, it was very kind of you to agree to help me."
"Mum says you get good karma if you aid a widow."
"It's going slower than I thought, take the rest of your school vacation. On the plus side, you do a good job, catch a lot. Even better than my daughter used to."
Again a flash of resentment.
"Vydia dear, she's out of the picture. Summer job in the government office in Georgetown, then start at UG (University of Guyana). Besides she's too old. If I use a word too big for a children's book, she won't notice. And Derek, he's borderline Attention Deficit Disorder."
I feel my resentment vanish, completely. She has explained herself perfectly well.
Another gentle smile, "and yes the publisher has people capable of doing the job. But you have to understand the tone. To people here, I look like a bigshot, getting publishing royalties. In New York, I'm just a minnow. Nothing sells more than about 5,000 copies, a lot to school libraries. So, that same publisher who has stayed with me through a dozen books, well if I caused him any work or hassle, he'd drop me."
We return to work.
"Isn't that a rather large word to use for age 8 to 12 readers?" I ask, pointing.
She chuckles, agrees.
As I arrive home, Mum calls, "in the kitchen Vydia honey, we have to talk."
I know the tone well, yet one more job for a "nice girl".
Oh yuck, she's doing pumpkin again, this time with shrimp. I hate her pumpkin, done to absolute mush. Prefer calaloo (a form of spinach) or green beans; at least she leaves some life in them. That pumpkin Aunt Lata gave us will last forever, or seem to.
"Honey, you know Fatima, the Afghan girl three doors down? Family moved in a month ago. She'll start same Grade Four as you next week."
From fifty yards, you can see it painted all over Fatima, needy, greedy, wants tons of attention, devour you alive, hold on like a drowning person. There is a reason I've been dodging Fatima.
"I know who you mean Mum."
"But you haven't met her yet?"
By a happy coincidence no. But pointless to argue with Mum. She's always been a know-all. Since the death of Dad, that's thrice as much. May as well try using powers of reason upon a herd of stampeding buffalo. "No Mum," I reply politely.
"So honey, what do children say of this family?"
"That geek Marvin reads fantasy and sci fi on the web. He's positive Fatima's Mum is graphic artist on about a dozen sites."
"No secrets in a town this size. She told me so herself when she visited in the store. What else do kids say?"
"Father sells smuggled cigarettes outa his taxi."
"Which makes him one of the harmless sort. Most peddle dope too. So, what do children guess, why did they show up in this backwater of backwaters?"
"He is a Political, Mum. Easy to spot, that demented, obsessed look."
"Vydia honey, your promise, what I say next stays between you and me."
And here it comes. The Queen of All Social Workers is about to increase her caseload by one.
"I promise Mum."
"He is Political, got in using refugee rules. Soon as he arrived started up his own political blog."
Yes Mum, I think, lemme guess, the government back in Kabul denounced him on their website, left nasty comments all over his blog.
"You see honey, people spammed his blog. Left hundreds of thousands of machine-generated comments clogging it."
Ah ha, am I right or what?
"No big deal Mum, he can just start another blog. They are free."
"Honey, you have it wrong. Not an enemy party doing it. His own, former party."
It starts to dawn, "you mean Mum, even his own party view him as a tedious nuisance? Wishes he would just disappear?"
"It goes downhill from there, he's started drinking."
I feel a wild insane desire to jump up, grab Mum by the collar, shout, "hello in there! Are you for real? Everyone here drinks. Rum is US $1.25 a large (26 ounce bottle). Hindus drink, Christians, Atheists, even gasp half the Muslims here drink. Does one drunk more or less really make any difference to our town?" But of course I don't do this, I'm a "nice girl", so "Mum, it is said that if drinking is inside of you, then Guyana will find it, bring it out."
"To you honey, it may seem unimportant. But Fatima's Mum has never seen anything like it, is terrified."
So lemme guess, they'll invite her to Al Anon, a chance for her to understand it all.
"She asked and I agreed honey. If things get too crazy, she can come stay here awhile. That would be fun, you and Fatima could roommate."
I'd rather be tied to the roots of a tree out by the backdam, left for alligators to devour. It would be more merciful in the long run. My castle, my privacy, invaded by that. Oy! Still, pointless to argue with Mum.
I send a silent prayer, "please give Fatima's father the king of all hangovers. Let him join the living dead for three days. That ought to smarten him up."

Table of Contents

1. Baseball - novella length - entered January 3 to 11, 2006 - The life of a baseball player hangs in the balance; is saved. The price? A lot higher than most would care to pay.

2. Romance Novella - December 12 to 16, 2005 - The chronicle of two individuals who would be least likely to ever grace the pages of a Harlequin.

3. Field Commission - book length - October 11 to November 15, 2005 - A poor white and her Afghan friend experience a series of misadventures during a tour of duty in Germany. Then a week of total war.

4. Lucky - novella - July 2 to 7, 2005 - Time Corps adventures of a Guyanese and her Afghan friend.

5. First Mission - short story - June 20 to 23, 2005 - A Lieutenant on her first operational mission falls prey to a navigation erro, stranded in time. It goes from bad to worse when she is mistaken for a Russian spy.

6. Futuristic Infantry - book - May 26 to June 18, 2005 - Major Zohra Zamani is an infantry battalion commander 500 years in the future. Join her for three Ulster tours; between tours, experience her difficult way of life.

7. Alien - book - January 8 to 24, 2005 - A space Alien is exiled to Earth, taking over the body of an Afghan-Canadian women in a state of clinically dead. The two sides of the personality, Afghan and Alien, then duke it out for dominance.

8. Green Lake - novella - December 2 to 11, 2004 - Adventures of an Afghan-American US Air Force officer 1,000 years in the future. She goes from obscurity to fame by leading a derring-do mission.

9. Time Corps - book - October 27 to November 22, 2004 - A woman of today is thrust 10,000 years into the future. A plane crash dramatically changes her life.

10. Romance - short story - October 13 to 16, 2004 - Double romance, set aboard a space ship.

11. Jamila - novella - October 1 to 9, 2004 - A total outcast decides to end it all. Two surprise visitors, one an Afghan, change all that.

12. Dark Chronicles of Nooria - book - August 30 to September 29, 2004 - A ten year old girl is plunged into a chilling nightmare, a surreal Dantesque horror.

13. Iris - short story - August 26 to 28, 2004 - An Irishwoman joins a contingent of Afghans.

14. Farzana - novella - August 11 to 25, 2004 - A ten year old white Canadian girl freezes to death in a savage blizzard, gets a second chance at life as an Afghan.

15. Soap (Opera) - book - July 26 to August 10, 2004 - An assortment of eccentric foreigners joins an Afghan contingent.

16. Vignettes - short short stories - mostly under 1,500 words, mostly published July 25, 2004 and prior.

Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Certain historical events did occur, similar but not identical to descriptions here, but not with the characters named herein.

Profanity - stars **** used
Violence - minimal amount needed to support the story line
Sex - adult relationships alluded to, some pickup activity, no sex scenes

This blog is neither for nor against any political organization, religion or ethnic group. Goal is to celebrate Afghan culture, while keeping all stories suitable for children.

Baseball 11

This coffee the men have lots to say, "imagine that! A public statement he was shooting at little green men!"
Laughter.
"Even owing the pistol is illegal."
"He had an excuse for that, bookie was putting heat on him."
"Further, has nothing against the baseball player, admires him, watches a dozen games a year."
"Thirty day detox then the psychiatric evaluation."
Quiet voice, "that Hannigan is a liar."
"How so?"
"Think of audits, you've cornered the accountant or controller, ask a direct question, he refuses a direct answer."
"Think so?"
"The reporter asked him three separate times whether he had or had not seen little green men. First, it was the guy was obviously drunk. Second, guy needs to go to AA. Third, that's what happens with the DT's."
"Yeah, but there are no green men."
"Take a vote. Who all says Hannigan knows something huge, something he's hiding, but not green men?"
Unanimous.
It's out to a car wash to pick up books. Zohra parks around a corner, finds a coffee shop half block away, across the street. An hour of sifting books as she counts cars.
"Quentin, we won't waste much time on this file. Almost no one pays cash anymore, all debit and credit cards. His cards match ok, if he's siphoning, it's tiny. Traffic count ok."
"Revenue maybe, what of expense?"
"He's cheating his staff on hours, keeping costs down. Between them and the provincial Labor Board."
I chuckle.
"We aren't God. Cheat your customer, employee, banker. Even cheat your own mother out of borrowed money. We don't care, just don't cheat us."
That evening we negotiate a deal on TV and reading. There's nothing I like on weeknights, nothing she likes weekends. So I get weekend sports, she gets the remote weeknights.
She is fairly strict on reading, eyes get tired with computer work. I sympathize, having been a CSR. I'm not allowed to read under artificial light, more strain.
Weekends during the day, yes. I set a limit for myself, never more than two hours on a Saturday or Sunday.
I get suspicious as to where relatives come in all this. From high school days, I know Afghans are family oriented.
It's like running into a brick wall. She flat out states, "don't go there."
I deduce she and family do not see eye to eye for reasons unknown.
Next day we pick up books and records from Hannigan. He's aged ten years since I last saw him, hair grayer, face more lined.
Zohra is ecstatic as she does cross checks, "thank you so much for the advice my friend. Half hour and I'm sure it's clean. Keep the file a bit, make it look like I sweated."
"That's nice."
"My first reaction was to run you off. Now I would not want to. You are pretty helpful, very easy to negotiate with. I understand why Indira hung on."
"Don't try getting pushy like her."
Easy laugh, "would not dream of it. Any disputes, we'll try to solve with goodwill."
"Such as?"
"Sooner or later, a boyfriend."
I gasp.
"I know, that's Mount Everest, everything else, easy in comparison."
"So ah when?"
"Never had any decent luck with men. Not in a great hurry to try again."
"Zohra, do you really have to buy $30 worth of lottery tickets twice a week?"
"Why not?"
"You realize that's over three grand a year. Take the same amount, use it to pull down principal on your mortgage, pay it off years earlier."
She runs the calculation, gasps, "but then, it's the death of hopes, of dreams."
"I said the same about baseball after my injury. But odds on the 6/49 are 1 in 14 million. Buy say 3,000 tickets a year, it's roughly 4,600 years you'd hafta buy. I mean in order to be statistically certain of winning."
"Ok tell you what. One ticket per draw, rest on the mortgage."
She does almost zero walking, even taking the car three blocks to the convenience store. I start with the obvious, just walking to the store.
When I sense she is comfortable with that, I expand it a bit. In no time, she's up to forty minutes a day, pace fast enough to give cardiovascular benefit.
Sitting in Tim's, traffic was lighter than usual, got twenty minutes to kill before a taxpayer appointment. Head down, reading the paper.
It's Danny's voice, "uh ma'am, excuse me."
Look up.
He blushes hotly, "very sorry to disturb you ma'am. Just had a very strong feeling, said you were someone I knew."
Raise an eyebrow.
He blushes ever hotter, "sorry ma'am, it's not like that at all, I wasn't trying to pick you up." He beats a retreat."
"Who is he, Quentin?"
"Best friend and road roommate in days of baseball."
"He could feel your essence, your life force, but didn't know what it was. Wonder why Hannigan didn't have that reaction?"
"My guess, Hannigan is old and cynical, knows all. Danny, just a little boy who never grew up, more open, more honest."
"He's cute, I could go for him."
"Run for your life. Drinks like a fish, crashed up his father's car drunk. Twice arrested for barfights, three times for assaulting a girlfriend. More social diseases over the years than you would believe."
"So how come you and he were friends? You weren't like that."
"Step on the field, nothing else matters, the brotherhood of baseball."
This sort of accidental meeting must happen a hundred times a day in this city. Usually it involves nothing more than a sheepish apology, quickly forgotten.
And so, Zohra quickly drops any thoughts of chasing Danny. But it opens the floodgates, gets her obsessing on sex. This is both good and bad. Bad in that I'd prefer she just plain does not go there; good in that it gives me prep time.
It would be a lousy strategy to play King Canute and command the tide not to come in. I'm aware of what her level of retaliation would be.
Just so, lousy stategy to read up on sex issues, just get her obsessing more.
Only one logical way I can think to handle it, dissociate, vanish into the dark corner of the mind, let it happen but don't be there.
I try this at meetings - long, boring, petty and too many of them. I vanish into daydream land.
It works well. I can come and go with ease. Be totally absent, yet return in a second.
I soon discover that is exactly what she was doing in meetings.
It's good I'm prepared. Sparks fly between Zohra and some dude she meets in a coffee house, in town on convention.
I vanish, daydream of past baseball glories.
It ends a lot sooner than I expected, "Quentin, ok to come out now, he's gone."
"Already? He gotta problem with premature ejaculation?"
Sheepish, "problem was mine, lay there like a sack of flour."
"You did?"
"See I've always been lazy in the physical sense. Hate gym, like schoolwork. You come along, take over walking, cleaning, typing at work, I've gotten even lazier. Didn't realize until it was over, I was supposed to be contributing something. After all, I am out of practice."
"So ah where to go from here?"
"Next time, I won't make that mistake. Very sweet of you, vanishing like that, you could have put up a fight." She breaks into a cheerful tune. After, "tomorrow is a wonderful day in two regards. First, got laid. Second, first day of vacation for that silly Indira, gone to Guyana for a month."
"Should be more peaceful in the office."
"Quentin I am like you, don't believe in wishing ill upon another. I would never wish her plane to crash. After all, others would be killed."
"I sense a 'but' in that."
"But I hear there is a video rental store for sale in her hometown. I sure hope she buys it."
We both laugh. Yeah, things will be ok between Zohra and me. We've just done Mount Everest together. Anything else, will seem easy in comparison.

Baseball 10

We return from coffee. Zohra takes umbrage at the minutes of the Visible Minority Committee meeting. I can type 55 words per minute from my CSR job. The diatribe takes til five minutes before quitting time.
A busy day, yes; productive, not one iota.
After supper, we resume the book sorting. She is now on a rampage, heaves the moldy oldies. The collection is now 1/3 of the size, newer, non-smelly. I'm proud of her.
There is a vertical building pillar in the washroom. Effect, can't see anyone's feet in the far cubicle. It's there I sit next morning as I overhear, "so heard how bad the Pigs' Team meeting was last week?"
"No, haven't heard."
"Lasted five hours. Come on, every other team, it's an hour, maybe 1 1/2."
"Yeah I hear you. Bad as pettifogging lawyers. Bunch of anal retentive geeks."
"That crazy Indira, waving a knife around."
Gasp, "she takes a knife to meetings??"
"Not like that, it was a cake knife, someone's birthday, but still ..."
Hmm Pigs' Team, that explains a lot. Indira with a knife, she does get that heated.
"So Zohra, be honest, how was it you ended up Pigs' Team?"
"It was worth it, I can assure you."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Indira and I got into a fistfight."
I gasp, "you did? Who won?"
"Fourth punch I KO'd her. She was asleep a while."
Despite myself I laugh.
"Bet you wish you'd seen it?"
"Oh yeah!!"
"Let me guess, never hit her once in all those two years, right?"
"Correct."
"Gandhi would be proud of you, self-restraint like that."
Indira's smug look says trouble, again, "so Zohra, look relaxed, must have got laid."
"Matter of fact I did."
"Tell me all about it."
"I'm a real woman, need a real man. No wimpy baseball player for me. Little boys they are, talk of Mom, apple pie and Boy Scout days. Went to a biker bar of course."
Indira turns away in a huff.
Zohra chuckles, "Sorry Quentin, no offence meant toward you."
I laugh, "I understand."
"And now, she'll be so ticked at me, won't speak to me for a fortnight. Pure bliss!"
Team Leader must be in a hurry, "so Zohra, manage a decision?"
"If it were the football team, I'd say no way. Animals they are, cocaine, hookers, even one charged with murder. The baseball lads, pretty harmless sort. I could do the file without being nasty."
"Thank you so much. Lot of these woman would have said no."

Baseball 9

When men do coffee, it's usually gentle, though sometimes appears otherwise to the unitiated.
Certain topics are ok: sport, work, a bit of light politics, doings of various friends and relatives, vehicles, consumer electronics, vacations.
The needling lacks any viciousness, whimsical, humorous, bit of a bonding experience.
On rare occasions, a group will show its teeth, as the team did to me. Still, it's not meant to be cruel, just a message, "please go away, you aren't one of the wolf pack anymore. Just have enough good sense to find another crowd to run with."
Sex is ok as a topic, but usually with fairly tight limits. Ok to say you went to bed with someone; usually bad taste to say what happened. Ok to say who you would like to.
Often, men deny sex.
"So, got so-and-so Friday?"
"No I didn't, we were just talking."
"So why'd you leave at the same time?"
"Same Metro route."
Usually the denial involves the woman being less attractive. Whether the other men believe the denial or not, they won't challenge it. Why? Next week, could be them. Pretend to believe your buddy now, next week he returns the favor.
And #1, thou shalt not unburden in front of the group. Real men don't unburden period. If - God forbid - it's necessary, do it privately with your best friend.
Ok to talk about humorous problems your wife, girlfriend or kids caused; I mean no serious unburdening.
The audit team (1/4 men, 3/4 women) heads together for coffee.
The men all head to one end of the long table. Zohra tells me to slide in next to them.
And so I hear both sets of conversation.
For the men, little different from what the Triple A guys would say. Better grammar the only real difference.
The woman, I just plain don't believe it. Graphic gory sex, way beyond what I've ever heard before. The level of cruelty takes my breath away. Indira and two others excel in b****y sadistic comments.
Zohra stays outa the womens' conversation, vaguely follows the mens'.
As we leave, she tells me, "see how it is, always sit near the men."
"If Indira were a guy, talked like that in a bar, she'd be dead, probably a dozen times over by now."
"Now you see what I have to live with, Quentin."
The Team Leader wants to see Zohra, "I have a bit of a problem. Indira has declared a conflict of interest. All audits are of course drawn for randomly. Indira got the Triple A baseball team. With that recent breakup with that player, she is unable to be completely impartial. If you take the file, it doesn't increase your workload. I'll choose one of yours, about the same size, give it to Indira."
"I dislike sports in general. Where exactly does one draw the line?"
"Let's say you had dated a baseball player; he assaulted you; police charges. Or say your father used to take you to home games, get stinking drunk, embarrass you. Those things would qualify as COI. Just a vague dislike, no. Lots of people have vague dislikes of lots of industries. So you think it over, get back to me. Tell me if you believe you could be impartial; that is, treat them no different than a commercial laundry or restaurant."
Arriving back at the desk, she asks, "so Quentin, your take?"
"Zohra you will not find an easier file, for that size of operation. No profit, negligible level of loss to verify. Only fulltime employee is Hannigan and that's during season. Off season, he's a CA. No player salaries. Few casuals for ticket sales and grounds work. Mr Sanderson the owner does not do the concession. He's a generous soul, gives the booth free of charge to the Cancer Society. They use it as a fund raiser. Only real work, verify GST (Goods and Services Tax) on ticket sales."
She laughs, "so I gain production time. No matter what file Indira gets, I come out a winner. I'll wait a couple days to tell the TL."
"You mean let her sweat?"
"No, let her think I had to do serious thinking."
She phones the tollfree line to get lottery numbers. After copying these, she rechecks, twice.
She has thirty tickets, each with six numbers (6/49). It takes her forever to check, double check and triple check. She gets one free ticket, consigns the rest to waste.
Real battle then starts, but not with the taxpayer, with Finance. Her overtime and travel expense cheques arrived while she was away.
She is utterly determined Finance ripped her off three kilometers, about $1.50. After a struggle, she is still unable to reconcile her previous claim. She zips off a blistering email to Finance, blaming them of course.
She is equally certain Personnel ripped off 1/4 hour of overtime. This time, she finds the error. The email - ouch - let's just say if Mr Churchill and Herr Hitler had exchanged such letters, World War 2 would have started several years earlier.
Lunchtime, it takes forever standing in line at the convenience store downstairs. Wednesday's pot will be elevated so every bureaucrat and his dog is buying.
Returns to desk with a clamshell of food. Halfway through this, the Tech Advisor shows. They spend well over an hour, arguing furiously. Zero tax dollars are at stake; it's the artistic layout of a table. I suspect both thoroughly enjoy the argument.
She calls up CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) site, checks news and weather. By now, it's afternoon coffee.
She asks the men what they thought of the baseball player who was recently slain.
"You did know, he used to be Indira's boyfriend?"
"I don't mean that, how was he on the field?"
"Great fielder. Charge line drives, perfect slide, pull the catch out of the dirt. Or climb the wall with a perfect jump, steal away your homer. Try and round first on him, gun you down at second, arm like a cannon."
"How'd he bat?"
"Their DH died a while ago, auto accident. Between him and this lad, that was the offence."
"So, you mean maybe no team next year?"
"Don't underestimate Coach Hannigan. He's had his back to the wall before. Maybe he'll find hitting."

Baseball 8

Zohra is hanging up her coat when Indira approaches. I know the look well, b****y, smart ass, spoiling for an argument; but have never seen it look that ugly before. I can only assume Indira used to hold back with me, afraid of losing boyfriend.
Phony smile, "look more relaxed, musta got laid."
I her Zohra's angry thought, "get lost b****." But she puts on a phony smile, "you know how it is when you have a busy lifestyle. Sometimes the dusting falls behind a bit. Did some, feel nice."
It's a mistake, gives Indira an opening, "my former BF, the ball player, pain in the ass. Not abusive, just neglectful. All that stuff athletes get caught up in."
Bland, "aren't all men so?"
"He had one redeeming feature, one reason I hung around, he was multi-cultural. Explained to me how Feng Shui works." Now the smile is earnest, not phony, "it really works, changes I made in my apartment. I have a magazine article in my desk, would you like me to run a photocopy?"
"Yes please."
I sit, Zohra laughs, "how on earth did you manage two years with that?"
"We-ell, she's less hassle than baseball groupies."
"My respect for you has just gone up."
The article arrives and Zohra reads. Front and center is the business of clutter holding onto negative energy.
Musing tone, "so you were helping me out?"
"Yes."
"Good, tonight you and I will redo the books. I know darn well lotta those hafta go."
She starts in reading email that arrived during her absence. She can't concentrate, endlessly re-reading them.
I ponder that, get discord in a workplace, production goes down. Takes her til morning coffee to read a dozen. If she weren't on edge from Indira, I'd guess it would her half an hour.

Baseball 7

Doctor smiles gently, "you're a person prides himself on keeping his word. Here's what I want, an oath, you will not commit suicide during one complete Earthling year. After that, if you still can't manage, well go ahead."
"Why a year ma'am?"
"It'll be a struggle, ups and downs. You may seem sensible by the light of day. Three am, the strange mood comes, anything can happen. Will you give this oath? If you don't, nothing I can do to help, on your own."
So I do.
By now, it's easier to understand her. All the time the Lt and I spoke of sports, the previous occupant remained hidden away. Now, when I hear the female input from the Doctor, I understand it better.
The Afghan is flexing her muscles. I can sense what she wants, total takeover from me.
After considerable questioning, the Doctor asserts I came out perfectly normal, for this type of event.
I have absolute control over physical movement. Whether a dish gets washed or not, someone gets bopped on the beak or not, my call.
She has power of nag, akin to a marriage. If she's mildly unhappy, it's a mild jab. If she's wildly ticked it assumes a white noise intensity, overpowering. Any movement then seems like a deepsea diver working 400 feet down, pushing against the wall of water.
So, whatever I do, I need her approval or at very least, only mild disapproval.
She has absolute power of speech. No matter how bizarre it might be, I have no power to stop it. But, if she's mouthing off in a way that would get her (us, me) assaulted, I have the ability to bring on near-migraine pain level. Slow her down.
Philosophy, straight out arm wrestle, no advantage either way.
And so it is, we (I) being perfectly healthy and normal, the Aliens release us (me), but on a time shift. Back to where she was, so there is no missing time to account for. Not exactly, five minutes later, for technical reasons.
She lives in a beautiful two bedroom, two bathroom condo. Worst tip I've ever seen, total disorder, never cleaned.
I'm used to a tiny bachelor apartment, akin to a submarine, no room for error, mess chokes you and fast. Besides I've read on Feng Shui, had a platonic Chinese friend in high school who got me interested.
The Afghan woman Zohra is simply attracting the wrong energy into her life. It flows in, gets stuck in the clutter, should flow on through. To a westerner, think of the difference in water quality between a fast brook and a (stagnant) swamp.
I make a decision the condo is Job One. I will simply go along with whatever her workplace and social choices are, for now anyway. If the condo could be orderly and clean, it would slow down that manic overdrive personality. But again, best not to be a bull in a China shop.
I start with the obvious, stuff she cannot contest. The many newspaper sections scattered over floor and furniture go down to the recycling bin. There are so many, it takes most of a day.
I let her decide about supper. She thanks me that the place looks better.
Next day I assault the kitchen. Lotta dishes to wash, everything she owns. Also throw out the empty containers swamping fridge, stove top, table and counter. Again she thanks me.
The place reeks to high heaven of smoke. She's pack a day and myself non. Remember I have absolute power to say no physically, but then, when she turns on the white noise nag, I can't hold out long. We agree on six cigs a day and at what times.
The worst holder of this smoke (and mildew) is her massive collection of paperback books, mostly murder mysteries, many very old and ratty.
I could chuck the lot, but guess what happens next. So I ask, could we work together? If we can throw even a few, her place will look and smell nicer.
She is quick to agree, but slow to actually produce. I pick up every single book, ask her. Only the worst tenth gets thrown. Still it's an improvement and it does shift her thinking a bit.
That consumes the rest of her vacation. Then back to the witches' cauldron, to experience things beyond my wildest imaginings.
Conversations between Zohra and myself are mental, not aloud. When she speaks to another, it's her voice, her wording choice.
In all this, she cannot see directly into my mind nor me into hers. Think of a computer spyware analogy. Imagine it can see the screen(s) you called up, but not access memory. Just so, Zohra and myself. Difference is, the spyware would pick up all screens, important or not. She and I only pick up on the other's thoughts involving angst. Not on routine stuff like checking the stove. Just as well or we'd be drowned in the other's mind chatter.
Even before the shooting, I knew Zohra was Revenue Canada. How? I didn't own a computer, went to the public library once a week on average. (Anything baseball was done on the shared terminal in the clubhouse.) Often I'd stop at the attached coffee house, just loved their French Roast.
I even knew Zohra was Business Audit Division. How? At that same coffee house, often saw Zohra and Indira and others gathered, it being right next door to the Fed Building.
Yet it floors me to discover, she sits two desks away from Indira. What are the odds of that? Business Audit is some 500 people.

Baseball 6

I awake feeling stiff, been immobilized, probably so I don't roll around, injure myself further.
A hexagon shape door slides open, in walk two Aliens, green, three feet high, a man and a woman.
The man starts, in English, with a mechanical voice that probably means he's using a translator, "you are Quentin Mullaly, baseball player?"
"Yes."
"I am Lieutenant Xar, translation and research specialist. This is our Chief Medical Officer Colonel Xav."
I nod toward her.
He continues, "may I call you Quentin?"
"Sure."
"This translation program is good with nuance, but not 100% reliable. If I should happen to say anything which offends, it is not my intent. Please do not be angry, merely ask me to clarify."
"Ok."
"Quentin, the basics about us. Our planet is so far advanced, we need not fear for our safety. No other force dares to attack one of our research ships. Also intergalactic raiders never dare attack our home planet. We are here at Earth, but not for violent reasons. Our economists have abolished poverty. Even our most menial workers live in apartments of 3,500 square feet."
I gasp.
"Our medical researchers have abolished disease. Everyone lives a full lifespan, unless felled by alcoholism, drug abuse, bar violence or vehicle accident. Our workweek is fifteen of your Earthling hours. Even our poorest have ten times the discretionary income that one of your Earthling doctors has. So, what is your prediction of how our society will fare?"
"Lt, take away the struggle factor in life, I'm guessing your people fall prey to addictions. Probably at higher rates than Earthlings do."
"Exactly, you are an astute observer. That is what our space program is all about. We seek further knowledge about art, music, literature, cinema, sport, architecture, history, home decoration, philosphy. Anything at all where we can take ideas home. If people do not spend free time on worthy pursuits, we-ell."
I chuckle.
"You my friend will be our honored guest for a while, until we are sure of your medical conditon, at which point you will return home. No harm will be done to you. I would ask for your assistance. You see, I need information on sports towards my PhD thesis. Would you be so kind as to help?"
"I'd be honored, ask anything you like."
"You and I will talk privately, later. You know how women are about sports."
I laugh and he joins in.
"And now, I turn you over to the boss, CMO Xav."
She has a kind look. I instantly like her.
"May I call you Quentin?"
"Yes ma'am."
"We have strict rules of non-intervention. We must not interfere in the doings of Earthlings, no matter how bizarre. If one shoots another, sad that people are so primitive, but beyond our authority to act. What you saw in the parking lot was not an attempt to bomb the man's car. He is famous, of considerable interest to our researchers and we wished to eavesdrop on his conversations. We must not however endanger any Earthlings in our operations. According to intergalactic treaty they are an endangered species. So, your death would have been our fault. He was shooting at us, not you. Had we not been there, he would not have shot you. We had a legal and moral obligation to save your life."
"Thank you ma'am."
"Don't thank me just yet. You might be less than happy with the results. Your original body is no more, totally beyond any repair, even by our advanced techiques. We had to scramble fast to find a new host for you, someone who had died in the last thirty of your Earthling seconds."
"Why ma'am? I've heard of people being clinically dead for minutes. It would give you a wider selection."
Gentle smile, "you are of course referring to the person going back into the same body. Suppose we placed you in the body of someone dead five minutes. You would have good physical health, or at least as good as they had. But you might have to learn a new language, new job skills. By getting a freshly dead body, you benefit bigtime. You keep all of your memories, get the skills of the other person too."
"But ma'am, meaning no disrespect, I don't feel any different, don't pick up anyone else's vibes or thoughts, just me."
"The other person is in shock, retreated to a dark corner of the mind. Always happens, in a few days that person will emerge."
I feel uneasy, "and ma'am, you mean try to take over, don't you?"
"Look at the bright side. Is that not preferable to being a dead body in a parking lot?"
By now I'm not so sure, "who is this person ma'am?"
"We ran a quick psy profile on you, discovered you to be non-racial. I would assume you could cope with being a westernized Afghan. You wouldn't kill yourself merely because you are no longer white."
"I could do that. High school baseball, one of my best buddies was Afghan."
"Excellent, just one minor problem. There was not a male body available."
"N-not a?"
She holds a mirror in front of my face and I'm screaming. She takes my hand in hers. I feel a flow of energy, not sex, a calming influence. After probably five minutes of this, I'm back to rationality, "ah sorry ma'am, didn't mean to bite your head off, you certainly did your best for me."
She smiles gently, "it's a perfectly normal reaction. You and I will talk privately later, I'll clue you in how to handle all this. Now, just rest, you've been through a lot."
The Lt and I are instant friends, spend many days talking of sport, on Earth and his planet.
Gradually I understand the process. They're giving me the easy part first, build my confidence, get me in a better mood. The dread will come later.
He has a collection of sports vids which I run for him in slow motion, sometimes freezing frames. I can then explain the significance of moves to him. He just cannot thank me enough for my assistance.

Baseball 5

I order a medium size double double, Timspeak for two cream, two sugar, take my cup to a window seat. Could be a long wait, Danny is never a punctual sort. Only way Hannigan kept him in line was periodically bench him a game or two, call up a first baseman from Double A.
Danny shows only five minutes late, must be a serious matter. Asks how things are with Lata, I explain.
"Man you let girls walk all over you, go get a groupie."
"I'm not a star anymore. Groupies don't go for has-beens with career-ending injuries."
"Jaysus Quentin, I'm sorry came out wrong."
I'm shocked; can't recall Danny ever apologizing before.
Deep breath, here it comes, "You see, we talked bout drawing straws. But no, I volunteered, said I was your best friend from baseball days, you'd prefer talking with me. See Hannigan never said why you won't do DH, only you wouldn't so forget about it."
I nod.
"We figgered, wasn't hard, pride of course. See Hannigan gives you DH, as opposed to calling up some young guy from Double A. How does it look? Like an act of charity, a sop to his conscience, like he feels sorry for you. Am I getting close?"
"Not exactly on target, but not far away, keep talking old pal, I won't bite you."
"But more to pride than just that. We ah well ah, God this is awful to say. Ah we thought back to after your injury, we were ah well rude I guess. We want to apologize."
"I am proud of you Danny, took lotta guts, you coulda just left that for drawing of the straws."
"So you accept our apology?"
"I accept your apology."
"Now we put our heads together, some way so you'd see it wasn't charity, but good baseball. Smith is better with numbers than any of us, ran a table of your contribution over the years. Just how many of those runs came from you."
He passes me a paper, I examine it.
He smiles, "as you can see, lotta Ryan's homers were single shots, too many. You come through in the crunch, with men aboard. Produced far more RBI's than him. So, no matter you never field another ball. I have a letter here, all the players signed, asking you to consider doing DH."
I examine it, "Danny it's not just an issue of pride. See it's the death of hope, of dreams. In right field or first base, always the hope of that big or small gig in the Bigs. DH, what century did they last call up a DH? Lottery ticket odds."
He looks puzzled, "then why did Ryan play DH?"
"Father was a doctor, lotsa money, didn't mind helping out. Baseball helped keep him outa trouble, so his dad was pro-baseball. But for guys like you or me, making our own money, it's a lot harder to do baseball for free."
"But you're still working on your degree, can't get a decent job just yet. Still waiting to see how the Lata thing pans out. I ain't saying play til you're 45, but would one season hurt?"
I start to ponder.
He presses on, "you know for a fact, DH takes nowhere near as much time as you used to put in. After all, you aren't an athlete climbing walls or charging line drives anymore. Don't need the same gym time, BP and vids are really all you need."
Why not? "I'll talk to Hannigan, he may have other plans, some guy he's found in Double A. If Hannigan accepts me, I'll do it."
"Take out that cell right now. You know that firm of chartered accountants he works with, doesn't want us players calling him office hours."
Hannigan answers on the second ring, is in traffic will call back. He's over the absolute moon, ecstatic hearing my decision.
Danny leaves looking happy.
The team Christmas dinner is dry for a variety of reasons. The religious scruples of Mr Sanderson the owner might be a factor, but likely not a big one. He's not preachy or self-righteous, doesn't put on airs.
The team budget is far more likely to be an influence.
But first and foremost, half these guys are obnoxious drunks with a capital 'O'. Much as Hannigan would like publicity, he'd prefer not to read of some overweight insurance salesman at the next table being called a fairy and beat up.
We eat in an unlicensed restaurant. Immediately behind it, it's small parking lot. Six inch high concrete divider, then the huge parking lot of a lounge.
No one on the team owns cars (except the late Ryan), so Hannigan is the only one parked out back.
It's a pleasant time. People are a tad uneasy until they sense that no, I ain't a grudge holder, bygones are bygones.
As the party breaks up, Hannigan discreetly pulls me aside. We chat small talk for a minute, til the gang is all gone to the Metro station.
I'm in no hurry, live four blocks away, weather is mild.
Hannigan and I walk around back. During the time it takes him to smoke two cigs, he interrogates me, understands how important honor is to an athlete. He wants details on the team apology, wants to be certain I actually feel ok about things.
Once satisfied with this, he chats on how he loves road trips, an escape from his tedious windbag wife.
"Holy sh**," he gasps, "do you see what I see?"
"Coach, I never drink, nor am I on any prescription. I see two little green men planting devices on that car."
He laughs uneasily, "my wife'd kill me if I took a drop, hafta go to AA meetings you know. I ain't on any prescriptions, and yes, that's what I see."
Thirty feet away, a large man comes around a corner, into view. One of the football players, well paid of course. In a loud drunken voice, he commences sailor talk on these same green men, must be his car.
Next thing you know, there's a pistol in the footballer's hand and he's blazing away like it's the OK Corral.
Hannigan seems a million miles away, as he kneels over me. Blood flow like this, think seconds to live, not minutes.

Baseball 4

The day after I see Lata off at the airport, Hannigan phones at six am, "got a CRS shift today?"
"Yes Coach."
"Cancel, get here now."
The telco doesn't mind as long as you phone in.
First time I've seen Hannigan actually look happy, "parent team, right fielder was in a fender bender. Not taking any chances, til all the med results get back."
My big break.
"Your air ticket, hotel reservation." I examine them.
"Now the important stuff. Chances are it's only one game, just being careful. Hitting, just keep on how you do. Fielding, gotta change. You are the most aggressive right fielder in all Triple A. I correct that, the most aggressive outfielder."
"Thank you Coach."
"Our fans love it; our team loves it; our place in the standings does; so do I. But let's say it's only one day. Now that wall climb, that perfect timing of jump to steal away a home run. That you can keep. Even if you miss, no big deal, woulda been a homer anyhow. Shows good spirit. Important thing is it didn't cost the team anything."
I'm starting to catch on.
"That dive, charging a line drive, just don't do it. See you're used to playing on natural grass. Turf is a very different slide and bounce. Pull that stunt on turf, you'll miscalculate, he'll be on with a double or triple."
"Thank you Coach."
"Just take that line drive on the first bounce, body block very carefully, because it's a different bounce. No one will complain if your play looks boring, long as it's done right. Make one serious fielding error and you can kiss goodbye to a career in the Bigs."
My one game is uneventful in right. Hannigan was right; it is a very different bounce. Woulda looked like an idiot if I tried anything fancy. The climb of the wall simply never presents an opportunity.
In four at bats, I'm on with two singles, found holes. Team is happy I can hit precision as well as just power.
As I return home next morning, I reflect all went well, that is nothing went wrong.
Two days later, I face Slater, the hot new fastballer who can pop em to 106 mph.
Third inning, foul tip zings my ankle. Ump gives a minute or so to walk it off, then I'm ready again.
It's happened a hundred times, but feels different today. I finish the game, but go to the team doctor after.
It's only a crack, but I don't like the expression on his face. He downchecks me for rest of season (September), gets me a cane in case.
After the healing process, his prognosis, "no more baseball. You could be a postman, walk all day. Lope a block to catch the bus. Any sprints, turns, slides while running, out of the question. Only way you play next year, if Hannigan makes you DH (designated hitter)."
Fat chance, Ryan the DH is lousy in field.
As far as the team is concerned, it's as if I'm a plague carrier - my failure would infect their dreams. Season is over, but guys do gather for coffee. The chill is unbelievable, I just never go back.
Lata's emails go from warm and intimate to careful, afraid to risk any more emotional energy on me. I can almost hear the gears whirr in her mind. Baseball kept him focused, alert, busy, sober, out of trouble, in good physical condition. Take away the focus, he could be a lazy drunken bum.
I now work 40 hour weeks as CSR.
The two courses this semester seem different.
History - always had a soft spot for historical novels when I have time - I throw myself in with wild abandon - do far more than necessary.
French-Canadian Literature - I was born in Montreal, lived there til age twelve, love francophone culture. Again, I approach the course with prodigous abandon.
I soon see no one is reacting to me as a washed-up ex-jock. Profs and fellow students like my enthusiasm.
My hand shakes as I read Lata's email. She is releasing me from my vow. See like many East Indians, her real dream is entrepreneurship. In Canada, almost outa the question, needs too much capital. But she's buying a video rental store in her ancestral hometown of Enmore. Will lodge with relatives she knows from a high school summer vacation.
She wishes me well, adds I was always decent with her and with Indira.
I make a point of never wishing ill upon another, even a rival. There are religious reasons behind that, with which I will not bore you.
Still, my pulse escalates when I read of the death of Ryan, DH, is a drunk driving accident. A comeback, as DH?
In minutes, I've decided. First, too proud to go back, after being snubbed by those clowns. Second and more practical, DH position on a Canadian Triple A team gives about the same odds of success as buying a single lottery ticket; takes a lot more time than buying one. For better or worse, the baseball dream is over.
Hannigan phones an hour later, sounding me out. I tell him it's over. He thanks me for not wasting his time by hemming and hawing for months.
I've just bought a half pizza at telco when Sanjeev, Lata's younger brother, breezes by, Chinese food in hand. Seeing me, he stops, friendly smile, "mon, come join us."
It's four East Indians, all young guys whom I know more or less.
As if on cue, they start in with stories. All the people who got sick of it, came back to Canada.
Yes at first it seems nice to play big frog in a small pond. Yes, in terms of incomes there, ex-pat Indo-Guyanese make good incomes on these businesses. Compared to Canada, a joke, so poor, so primitive.
Sanjeev and I are alone as we head back, "find anyone else yet?"
"Truth is, haven't looked, job and school."
"Odds are 9/10 she's back in a year. If she does choose to marry a white guy, you'd be the best I know."
I'm touched by his vote of confidence, "thank you."
"Some are racist, show it. Others, keep it hidden, mostly. You, color-blind, totally non-racial. Alla the family is talking. Hope that if she comes back, it's you again."
I actually wipe a tear.
"I'm guessing she holds out a whole year."
In a flash, I know exactly why, "better for the resume. Quit before then, looks like a business failure. Entire year, people would believe you are just tired of the penny ante income."
Cheerful grin, "we'll make a real Guyanese outa you yet."
"Indira ah, did she ah gossip bout me?"
He blushes, "utter foolishness, no one believed it, not even her. Besides, no one likes her, puts on airs."
I laugh.
"Alla the Guyanese guys in your age group mon, happy to see when you and Indira hooked up."
"How so?"
"Means no more parental pressure about her. So how did you actually manage two years with her?"
"Not as bad as groupies."
"Might be nice to find that out myself."
"Despite Indira's attitude, she never assaulted me with anything. Nor redecorate my apartment with wine puke. Nor do drugs, drink too much or run around."

Baseball 3

I try a dozen times, at various hours, never reach Indira. Finally leave a vmail, "you should know by now how much baseball means to me, I don't intend to quit. Nor am I dumping you. Any of that, it'll be you dumping me."
After a week of no reply, I interpret that to mean it's over. When Lata mentions a Bollywood flick at the University Theater, I go. Platonic, but gather that many East Indians together and someone will gossip.
Two days later, a vmail from Indira, "Swine! Cheat! All your fault, not mine!"
Women! Always find some way to make it your fault. Whether it took a week, a month, a year, matters not. Me running around on her, hadn't actually broken up yet, of course.
I push it outa my mind. Brutal four game road trip coming, against murderous pitching, I need lotsa BP and vids.
Danny doesn't or can't find the time or both.
Funny, Lata understands the need for BP and vids, gracefully backs off, allows you the time. With Indira, it was always a fight.
Our road trip stinks. Three ugly losses, our win was shaky.
Team meeting upon our return, everyone is a bit somber as they pour coffee in the clubhouse. Yes Hannigan will rage, but we'll live.
Mr Sanderson the team owner shows, he never attends team meetings, only ceremonial events that give him a photo op.
In a quiet manner, he shows us tables of attendance, revenues and costs on the overhead. Turns to me, "Mr Mullaly, please come join me."
Mystified I do.
"Mr Mullaly, I understand you are fairly close to completing your Bachelor degree in General Studies."
"Yes sir."
"I'm informed this includes all of first and second year Commerce classes."
"Yes sir."
"And your girlfriend for a period of some two years was a Chartered Accountant."
"Yes sir."
"Like most couples, I'm sure you would talk of things held in common. So, now and again, did you ask her for advice on business cases in courses? Speak of articles in the business section of the paper?"
"Sir, I would be a fool not to."
He turns to the rest, "now, are you people willing to accept that Mr Mullaly's financial knowledge would be greater than your own?"
Grunts of agreement.
"Is there anyone here to challenge this? The same or greater level of knowledge?"
No takers.
"Mr Mullaly, if you were myself, what would you do based on the figures I just showed?"
"Sir, close the team, end of season. Huge capital gain off the land, centrally located, make a great condo complex. Building beyond repair anyhow. Sell the franchise to any of a half dozen US cities who would jump at the chance."
"And would you care to estimate, how much the land would bring?"
"Sir, my bottom line would be $30 million, not take a penny less. I'd be negotiating based on that."
I hear loud gasps.
Mr Sanderson smiles gently, "and the franchise would bring almost as much. Mr Hannigan, your meeting now."
After he leaves, Hannigan allows a moment for it to sink in, "I have two sets of responsibilities. First to Mr Sanderson, his bottom line is very simple. He is willing to live with break even. Any loss that's large, he'll sell.
"Second, and even more deadly serious, a responsibility to our parent team in the Bigs. Does anyone believe you'll get a call, take a month, get lotsa BP and gym time, then show up?"
No's.
"You're sitting in Tim's, sipping your morning java. Cell rings, be on the noon plane, be ready to walk on the field for 7:05 game time. Am I right?"
Yesses.
"If you hit well, field flawlessly, there are no guarantees, your phone may never ring again. However, strike out every time, commit two fielding errors and there is a guarantee. You know for a fact your phone will never ring again. Am I right?"
Yesses.
"I could rant and rave like I sometimes do, pointless, better to give a good example. One of you is always ready for that call, always does BP, vids, exercise bike, throws and stretches. Now Quentin, could I ask you a favor?"
"What Coach?"
"You've become invisible. People take you for granted, have no idea how much time you put in. I want you to post a log every week, absolutely everything you've done for prep work, get people focused. Can you do that?"
"Yes Coach."
"Resta you, I chat with one-by-one. We'll agree on a sked that won't kill you, but pushes a tad more than some of you have done of late. Any man who can't live with that, there's the door. Lotta Double A lads would love to be in your spot."
No takers for the door.

I'm fairly good at reading Lata, much better so than I was with Indira, so I can tell her news will be huge compared to mine.
"Rough road trip?"
"I'll say, even rougher team meeting." I fill her in sketchily.
"Best that way," she asserts, "get some of the slackers producing, team will do better, more attendance, stay alive."
I nod.
"Something I applied for, never thought I would get, came through. A semester with Canada World Youth, September to December, adult literacy project in Guyana. You see Quentin, it gives a lot of things. All expenses paid, small salary. Experience to put on your resume. Even counts for some uni credit, but not a full semester."
She pauses, I sense the main plunge is about to come, "you see, all our relatives are third or fourth generation Canadian. But it's a matter of honor, a coming of age, to do something for the ancestral home Guyana. If you've never done it, not treated like a real adult. After you have, become a real Guyanese, better social acceptance, your family is proud of you." Pause. "Just one problem, where does that leave you and me?"
I see the problem. Suppose I get selfish, say no, it would force her into a corner. What happens if she doesn't go? Only come to hate me over time. Any respect I now have with her family, gonzo.
"Let me clarify what I'm asking. If you're horny, pick up a groupie for a one night stand, que sera sera. I mean emotionally faithful. Wait for me, don't find another."
"Lata, remember two years ago Hanson was sent down from the Bigs, injury rehab assignment?"
"Yes."
"Lotta talk, you see he's a decent sort, doesn't put on airs, tells you how it really is up there. Told all sort of stories, what happened to various players. Again and again, he said, look for a decent woman, not a flashy bimbo. Say you're out on a twelve game road trip, you suspect she's running around. Gets under your skin, bat more poorly, make a few fielding errors. Is why so many guys have poor road records. The guy who trusts wife or GF, he can usually do as well on the road as at home. Lata, go do the trip. I'll wait for you and I mean in both senses of the word."
She puts her hand on mine, "I am so proud of you. My family will be too."

Baseball 2

Coach Hannigan rises and conversations cease, "lotta you look hungover."
Laughs.
"Last eight team barbecues, next day games, we're seven wins and one loss. Proof you guys play better hungover than sober."
Howls of laughter.
"Today it's the Timberwolves, only thing tough about them is the name. Bottom of the league, biggest challenge staying awake. Catch anyone nodding off, it's pushups when they're back in the dugout."
No idle threat, he does it.
"Right fielder down with the flu, their Coach got his nephew to stand in. So test him, hit to right if you can. Pitcher arrested for drunk driving. They called up Simpson from Double A. Anyone ever hit against him?"
No takers.
"Scouting report he has a lousy curveball, it gives more balls than strikes. Only uses it to make batters back away from the plate. Never throws outside curves, always inside, right in on your hands. Fastball, good, his bread and butter, mostly keeps it well down; means far more ground balls than flies. Nasty sinking fastball, bottom drops right outa it, you swing a foot too high. But way too predictable. Never uses that sinker except for the out pitch. When you got two strikes, odds are three in four it'll be sinker. Keep your bat down, maybe you can still get something."
He shows vids. Curve is telegraphed. No real difference in delivery between fastball and sinking fastball.
As we file out, I hear a woman's voice, "Quentin, look over here." It's Lata, Indira's cousin, she grins, "bash one for me today."
I blow her a kiss and everyone nearby cheers.
I take position in right field. Their leadoff man smokes a line drive. Fast decision time. Take it on the first bounce, guaranteed he's on with a single; it's a long throw and he's fast. Dive perfect, slide into it, pull it out before it hits ground and he flies out. But if I goof, it bounces over me, he's on with a double or more.
My slide is perfect, I snag it six inches above ground. The stands cheer wildly and I tip my cap.
I've noticed, pull a stunt like that early in the game and it often deflates the opposition.
They are retired one-two-three.
I bat in cleanup position. When I come up, two men are already on.
Simpson is afraid of my reputation, tries getting too fancy, pitching to the edge of the strike zone. I wait him out to a 3-1 count.
His grip musta slipped, fastball comes higher than he would like. I unload on it, placing it in the far parking lot and the stands erupt again.
After that, they're playing catch up ball, meaning mistakes. For them, it's a long afternoon.
I'm invited to Ma's for Sunday dinner.
Ma is relatively unsurprised to see Indira is a no show. It's not like this is the first time.
"Pass the gravy please Ma."
"Son, think back, how was it you first came to like baseball?"
"Back when Dad was alive, took me to games."
"So baseball has pleasant associations? Makes you think of him?"
"Yes."
"Quentin, look at that whole team. Most everyone on it has some sort of American connection. You, born in Canada, but your father and I American."
It starts to dawn, where she is headed.
"Only reason you're all there, you love baseball. In the eight years you've played Triple A, they've never paid salaries."
"Ma, it isn't just love of baseball. Also the dream of making the Bigs."
She laughs indulgently, "go on. What are your odds compared to people playing Triple A stateside? No time for anything real, you all run around doing jobs to make money. Look at you, that CSR (customer service rep) job."
"Bright side Ma, least I know my schedule in advance, when I'm available."
"Back to the main point. If anyone asked, are you pro-American, anti- or neutral?"
"Pro, fairly strongly so."
"Exactly my point Quentin. Now, what do you suppose a person would feel about baseball if they were anti-American?"
Bingo.
She continues, "even mosta the fans, American citizens. This is the fourth time Indira has pulled some stunt to try to get you to quit baseball. What do you think that says? Think of the political arguments she uses."
"Yes Ma, you're right she is somewhat anti-American."
"Somewhat??? Quentin, the word is rabid. Do you really think you and she would be a good match?"
It's well-meaning advice, but not impartial. Ma is a bit of a racist. Regardless of Indira's opinions toward the USA, Ma still would not want me to marry her.

My CSR job is in the telco building. I've just got my Chinese food in the food court, when I hear Lata's voice, "wait up Quentin." I've long since figured Lata's game. A person of moral principle, she would never charge in and steal what isn't hers. But she regards Indira and myself as a hopeless mismatch, positions herself to be first in line when the inevitable happens.
I'll stay away from baseball as a topic, brings out too much hero worship in her. Safer topics are relatives, the news, or our common university experience. She's fitting in classes around this job. Off-season, so am I.
She beats me to the punch, "to the fans, this isn't a big city, more a town. All the players are known by reputation."
Innocently I reply, "and a good thing too, we get zero press coverage."
She laughs easily, "I mean off-field reputation too. Bout half the team is like your road roommate Danny. Never met a groupie he didn't like. That is, if she can fill a size 36 bra or bigger."
"He's just an overgrown teenager, never grew up."
"Other half, the groupies don't ever bother to try anymore, know they are committed to wife or girlfriend."
I won't tell her anything, between Indira and me. Her next comment takes me by surprise, "someone told me you and Danny were homo buddies. I said ridiculous, ask any of the fans, they all know the reputations."
I laugh uneasily.
"The person persisted in these erroneous beliefs. Verrry determined. Then I saw, it's a hidden agenda. This person doesn't actually believe it, but has something to gain by pretending to believe it."
"And this person, is inflamed?"
Totally innocent, angelic look, "let's just say this person has a reputation. Know-it-all. People argue and the person becomes more stubborn than ever before."
No doubt, I think uncharitably, and I'm sure you had fun doing it.
Another totally innocent look, "if this person should happen to cause you grief through these silly accusations, you know where you can find a sympathetic ear."
"The person has already accused me. Could we leave these topic for a week or so?"
"They wouldn't throw you off the team, would they?"
I blush hotly, "Coach is desparate for publicity, would love to see the gay crowd start showing for games. Stave off bankruptcy court."
"So your only loss would be social? Not career?" Her expression clearly says, that would be no loss for you.
"True."
"If you feel the need to talk about this social loss."
Advice, oh yeah, but hardly impartial.
But then why not? Far better than those groupies, completely trustworthy. I would have not one iota of doubt in my mind when away on road trips.

Baseball 1

My usual stretch routine is light and easy. Not today - feel massively tense through neck and shoulders. By the time I've done batting practice and throws, I feel better.
Quarter to twelve, I'm back in the clubhouse. Danny stands behind me in the line at the coffee urn, looking like death warmed over. He didn't bother with a prep routine.
"Danny, can we talk private?"
"Sure Quentin, let's grab a window seat." Yeah, when the team meeting starts at 12:00, the park opens to the public, he'll be feasting his eyes on all the bikinis. 1:05 will be game time.
"Danny you look awful."
Goofy grin, "all that free beer at the team barbecue. Quentin, you never drink a drop, yet you look wiped. You and Indira have ructions? Again?"
I blush hotly, "remember how everyone was laughing, joking, pretending they were queers? She ah took all that serious."
"Man, she's nothing but trouble, should dump her."
"Not a bad person, just East Indian, doesn't catch nuance."
"Come on, she's third generation Canadian, no accent, went to a high school with 95% white people. Accounting designation, commerce degree, big shot at Revenue Canada. Surely you don't think she's some poor little immigrant."
"Danny it's awful. Gave me a week to decide - quit baseball or she and I are through. Doesn't want me going all queer on road trips."
"She ain't that stupid, it's a power play. Let's say you quit Triple A. End of your dream, chance to make Major League. What happens next?"
"I end up having to get a more regular job. She ah"
"Wears the pants - all the time - wanna be her live-in servant?"
"No."
"Then tell her stick it. There's a reason we share rooms on road trips - we ain't queer - the team is broke. We don't even get a salary. Every one in this whole town knows it, except her."
I nod.
"Besides, old buddy, this is your best season ever. Batting .343, leading the league in homers. All it takes is one illness, one injury up there in the Bigs and you get a tryout."
It's advice, but not impartial. If I stay with the team, odds of winning the pennant are at least a bit higher than if I quit.
"Quentin, do your talking with the bat. Four game homestand coming, bash five homers during it and I guarantee you, a new girlfriend will magically appear outa those stands. One who understands this stuff."

Table of Contents; Preview of "Baseball"

Table of Contents - for ease of finding, please scroll down on the right and click on "November 2005".

Preview of "Baseball" - Quentin plays right field for a Triple A team tottering on the edge of bankruptcy. Player salaries are out of the question; the team can barely cope with road expenses. And baseball requires a lot more of your time than simply showing for games, if you take it seriously. Still, the men struggle on, driven by a love of sport and the dream of making the Bigs. Quentin must still find the time to cope with making a living and dealing with a verrry troublesome girlfriend.
And then, everything changes. He lies dying in a parking lot, felled by gunfire meant for someone else. Some Good Samaritan Aliens rescue him, beam him aboard ship and do a salvage and repair job. After recovery, the return to Earth to face problems, more problems and yet more problems.