Category: Fiction Factor

Gary Tancred glanced at his wife, Gertie, and gave her a wink before handing a card to the host at the Crimson Crustacean.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re here for the end-of-life planning seminar and complementary meal.”

The Tancreds had received an invitation in the mail a couple of weeks earlier, one sent by the Heavenly Meadows Memorial Gardens Mortuary. It stated that if they attended “an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allows you ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” they would be rewarded with a delicious dinner.

Why not? Even though they were both in good health, they were also in their mid-70s. And one can be plowed over by a bus at any age, so there is never a bad time to prepare for the inevitable big sleep.

So, they put on their Tuesday best and headed out for date night.

The Crimson Crustacean was decorated in a distinct nautical theme, with life preservers and oars tacked to its ruddy red walls and a shipwreck display situated just outside the entrance to the main dining area. The host, wearing a sailor cap, navy blue pea coat, white slacks and black sneakers, cheerfully escorted the couple to an area designated “Grub Ahoy.”

Once inside, they joined several other couples at a long table – one adorned in a white, plastic tablecloth dotted with cartoon anchors. Standing at a podium a few feet from the table was the family service counselor at Heavenly Meadows.

“Hello, I’m Steadman Wilshire, and I’d like to welcome everyone to the Crimson Crustacean,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I know that you’ll enjoy the wonderful dinner and I trust you’ll find our program quite informative.”

Gary raised his hand.

“Hate to interrupt, Steadman, but we don’t have any menus,” he said.

Mr. Wilshire forced a smile.

“Actually,” he said. “The meal is already pre-planned. Each of you will receive a fish filet, baked potato and dinner roll, as well as your choice of iced tea, soda or water.”

Gary furrowed his brow.

“Well, that’s unfortunate, Steadman,” he said. “I was gonna order the Endless Lobster Trap with fries, and one of those cheese and jalapeno biscuits they’re always talking about on TV. Now, the fish plate is fine for Gertie – this is my wife here, Gertie – because she’s allergic to shellfish. But even if she wasn’t, she wants no part of a lobster.

“See, when she and her sister, Agnes, were teenagers, they went on a family vacation to Maine. They were on a pier horsing around and the damnedest thing happened; a lobster somehow got loose and attacked Agnes. Bit off her left nipple. We never knew if it was a random attack or a targeted one, or how her nipple even found itself in harm’s way, but you never forget something like that. At least I haven’t, and I wasn’t even there. Just imagine … losing a nipple. Mine are getting tender just talking about it.”

Wilshire didn’t know quite how to respond.

“I, uh, I’m sorry about all that, sir,” he said.

Gary interrupted.

“Not your fault at all, Steadman,” he said. “I mean, unless that was your lobster that got loose. In that case you don’t need to apologize to me, you need to apologize to Agnes and her good nipple.”

Wilshire’s eyes widened.

“We really do need to get on with the program, sir,” he said. “And as you can see, the food is already being placed on the table.”

Gertie raised her hand.

“One thing real quick, Steadman,” Gertie said. “I know funeral homes will do things like embalm you and put you in a coffin, or shove you in a furnace and cremate you. I guess all those are standard. But do you have, like, a Thelma and Louise plan? I mean, say if Gary and I both die and we’re willing to pay for it, is there a way you could put us in a convertible and drive us over a cliff? That just seems like it would be a fun send-off. I know our family would get a kick out of it. Especially Agnes, poor thing. Oh, even better, maybe get Susan Sarandon or Geena Davis to do the eulogy. If you could just talk a few minutes about those options, we’d really appreciate it.”

Wilshire was now red-faced and his once low voice grew higher.

“You two are being very disruptive and, frankly, wasting our time,” he said, practically spitting out his words. “We’re here to have a serious discussion and you … well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

Gertie produced a couple of Styrofoam containers from her oversized purse, and she and Gary raked the food inside them.

“Well, Steadman, you’re the one who sent the invitation saying we were in for an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allowed us to ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” Gary said. “And you never even answered the question about the Thelma and Louise option. We’ll just be taking our complementary food to go, thank you very much.”

The pair hurried out of the dining area and made a beeline to their car. After Gary cranked it up and pulled out of the parking space, both of them erupted in laughter.

“That was fun, Gertie,” Gary said. “Date nights with you are the best. And I gave ‘em a fake email address and phone number, so we don’t have to worry about any follow-up. What do we have next?”

Gertie opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small stack of invitations.

“Let’s see,” she murmured. “OK, next Tuesday at Cowpokes there’s a financial seminar. Free steak dinner.”

Gary smiled.

“Financial seminar, huh?” he said. “That’ll be fun … I’ll do the bit where I start talking about the Irish Republican Army when he brings up IRAs.”

Gertie howled.

“I love that story,” she said. “Especially the part where your cousin loses his right nipple in a friendly fire incident. Anyway, let’s get home and eat  before the fish gets cold.”

“Oh, no … not again.”

All Freddie Cullen wanted to do was have a nice, relaxing day at the ballpark.

He’d drink a beer – maybe two – wolf down a pretzel, and enjoy some High-A baseball courtesy of the Asheville Tourists. But it was also a bit of “quiet time.”

Sure, there’d be the crack of the bat and the chirp of the umpire, and he’d hear all of it since only a smattering of fans would show up for an 11 a.m. Wednesday start. But that was the beauty of it … he could enjoy it all without having to make conversation.

However, as he glanced over at Row 3, Section GG of McCormick Field – where his seat was – he saw “Talking Guy.”

Just a couple of weeks earlier he and his wife, Maisie, had gone to a South Atlantic League game between the Tourists and Greenville Drive. Season ticket holders, they were quite comfortable in their perch to the right of home plate and were used to different people occupying the spots around them.

During this particular game Maisie had a non-chatty young woman to her right, while Freddie was stuck with a “talker” to his left – one of those people who couldn’t resist commenting on every ball and strike.

And it was as though he had a form of baseball Tourette syndrome because he’d be yammering away at Freddie about an unrelated subject and suddenly shriek.

It was weird and unsettling, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely comfortable cozying up to strangers.

“Yeah, I was here back when they were the Double-A Asheville Orioles along, oh, about 1973,” said Talking Guy, embarking on a stream of consciousness dialogue. “I pretty much came to all their weekend games because I was a big fan of Rob Andrews, who batted over .300 that year STRIKE ONE! and – of course you know Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager – then they moved and came back in ’76 in the Sally League as the Tourists THAT WAS OUTSIDE BUT WE’LL TAKE IT! and they’ve been affiliated with the Rockies for more than 20 years SHOULDA BEEN STRIKE TWO, BLUE! But they were hooked up with the Rangers for a while, too, so over time you learn to follow the players to the bigs and kinda STRUCK HIM OUT … SAT HIM DOWN!”

Freddie thought of himself as a relatively friendly person but this man in particular just really, really got on his nerves.

By the third inning Freddie hoped either he or the talker would have a fatal heart attack. Didn’t matter which one … it’d be a relief either way.

And today – during what used to be called “Businessman’s Special Day” – he wouldn’t have his wife to bail him out of any unwanted chats.

Of course, he could sit almost anywhere due to the sparse crowd, so maybe he’d just ease his way over to Section MM and watch the game from the third base side.

Yep … that would solve his problem.

Rather than going to his regular seat, he instead went the other direction and plopped down on the general admission aluminum bleachers.

“Hey, Mr. Cullen,” said Randy, a longtime usher at the park who knew Freddie was a regular at the ballpark. “You’re not in your usual spot today.”

Freddie shrugged sheepishly.

“I hope it’s OK,” he said. “I figured it wouldn’t matter on a day like today.”

Randy nodded.

“Oh, no … it’s fine. I doubt there’ll be 300 people here. Besides, you moved from a $25 seat to an $11 seat. It’s not like you traded up”

Freddie chuckled.

“Just between you and me, I didn’t want to sit by that guy over in GG,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a nice old fellow and all, but good grief … he never shuts up. He nearly talked my ear off last time and I’m not really in the mood today.”

Rex walked over to Freddie and sat down.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Friedman,” Randy said. “Years ago, he used to come to all the games with his wife and daughter. He was always cutting up with everybody, and anytime he saw a group of kids he’d buy ‘em all snow cones or ice cream helmets. He does like to talk, there’s no doubt about that.”

Freddie stood up and looked over at Talking Guy, who had Section GG all to himself.

“You said he used to come with his wife and daughter,” Freddie said. “Does he not bring them anymore?”

Randy shook his head.

“He lost both of ‘em a while back,” Randy said. “I don’t remember what happened exactly, but they both died the same year. Seems like it was around 2017, 2018 … sometime along in there. I think he’s just lonely, that’s probably why he talks so much.

“Anyway, I better get up here and get back to my post. Shiner’s pitching for us today and it might be the last time we see him. I imagine he’ll get called up to Corpus Christi before too long. Enjoy the game, Mr. Cullen.”

Freddie – feeling like a monumental jerk – sat in silence for a moment and once again glanced over at the man he now knew as Mr. Friedman.

He got up, trudged to the concession stand, bought two draft beers, and made the trek over to Row 3, Section GG.

“I don’t think I introduced myself last time we saw each other,” he said, handing Mr. Friedman a beer. “I’m Freddie Cullen. So, I remember you saying something about the time Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager here …”

The sound of the basketball thundered throughout the gymnasium, with each bounce creating a reverberating thump. Joining in the hardwood concert were well-worn high-tops, adding their own rhythmic squeak as the player worked from left to right, then shifted from right to left, and finally raced from one baseline to the other.

Sometimes when he shot, the clank of the rim signaled a missed opportunity. Sometimes, but not often.

Usually when the ball was catapulted by his right hand, the only sound was a swish.

Harley Mayfair was born to play basketball. His father coached the local high school boys’ team – the Freetown Firebirds – and Harley started tagging along to practices and games from the time he could walk. He was the quintessential “gym rat.”

He loved the sounds in a gym … all of them. The furious grunting that could be heard during suicides, the sound of his dad shouting, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready” after every drill, and the roar of the crowd whenever the Firebirds hosted a game.

He often thought back to the first time fans cheered for him. It was during the opening game of his freshman season. With just a couple of minutes to go in a blowout win over Milton High, his dad decided to put him in to get some game experience.

He recalled how dry his mouth was as he took the court and how embarrassed he was when a small group of his friends starting chanting, “Harley! Harley!”

He thought he was going to throw up.

But when one of the seniors brought the ball up court and passed it to him, he calmly raced toward the top of the key, stopped, pulled the ball to his chest and launched a beautiful set shot that barely touched the net on its way through the hoop.

The crowd, as they say, went wild.

By the time he was a sophomore he had replaced the set shot with a dead-eye jumper, and finished the year as the region’s leading scorer.

The word “superstar” wasn’t a phrase used much during his prep years, but he most certainly was one. In fact, he was so good by the time he finished high school he had college scholarship offers from across the country.

He wanted to stay close to home so his mom and dad could watch from the stands, so he signed with Calico Polytechnic Institute. The CPI Bulldogs played in what looked like an old Army barracks – Calico Hall – and Harley loved the echoes inside the 5,000-seat arena.

He even enjoyed day games, where the sun would often shine in through the windows of the building and provide the north end of the court with something of a spotlight.

And that’s what he was waiting for today – one last day in the spotlight. One last day in his old stomping grounds.

Across the way, the sparkling new Harley Mayfair Memorial Arena was set to have its grand opening in just a few months, and Calico Hall would be razed and replaced with a parking lot.

It was progress, of course. And CPI – now known as Calico Tech – was due for a makeover.

Much had changed since Harley played in the 1950s, and even more since he died in 1997.

But there was one more chance to work from left to right, then shift from right to left, and race from one baseline to the other.

He might even have time to take a set shot before the hydraulic equipment was moved into place for the demolition.

Calico Hall had always seemed like home to him – especially in the afterlife.

After today, though, he’d have to move on.

Like his dad used to say, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready.”