stuck there with nothing to do but drive his forklift around unless he took action on his own. Of course he could quit. He could always quit. But where would he go? He ended up out here because it was the best place for him. And it had kept him out of trouble. But it was only natural that he get into a little something out in the desert. Something low risk. Something designed merely to spice things up. And now that he had, he was feeling more content than ever.
Back by the bleachers he could see Smitts looking over at him, trying to break away from the people he was talking to so he could come over and say something else inane. Ron got in the truck and started it quickly. The bat he kept under the seat rolled forward and he kicked it back under with his feet, trying to work the pedals so he could get away. Too much shit in the truck, he really needed to clean it out.
But the bat reminded him of the two buffoons. Ron backed out of the space and took off, watching Smitts start to walk toward him and then stop with his mouth half open, staring at the back of Ron’s truck as it sped away. Ron laughed at the image in the mirror. It was the same look the buffoons were wearing the night before. It was the slack expression of someone whose brain has simply shut down, quit processing, ceased every effort to comprehend the world around it.
But unlike Smitts—who was actually a moron—the buffoons were just slackers with no focus or direction. Ron imagined they’d learned a thing or two last night and he was expecting them to shape up, quit fucking around, and start getting serious. In many ways the buffoons were like the kids. They needed direction, training, otherwise they’d flounder aimlessly. But Ron knew what he was in for when he got involved with them—both the kids and the buffoons—and his batting instruction had come in handy with each.
He waited at the light and watched the Suburban with the red and blues on top pull out of the parking lot and come up behind him. Ron turned up the radio and let his left arm dangle out the window, his fingers tapping the door in time to “Sympathy for the Devil.” He glanced in his mirror at the two cops behind him.
When the light changed, Ron drove away slowly. Nothing was wrong, he was just the baseball coach heading home from a late practice. When he checked his mirror again, he saw the Suburban still sitting at the light. Then its blinker came on and the cops turned and headed out the south road toward the freeway.
Just like clockwork.
IV
“The guy’s fucking crazy, man. What’re we gonna do?”
“Will you relax? Jeez. Just mellow out.” Eli sat back on the couch and exhaled a long, slow cloud of smoke. He watched it drift through the lamplight and dissipate. Then he slouched sideways and stretched to reach over the side of the couch, passing the pipe to Eddie, who took it and continued to worry.
“How can I relax? You saw what he did. What the hell do we know about this guy anyway?” Eddie ran his fingers through his overgrown curls and then scratched at his chin. “What, he’s just some forklift driver out at Monarch? I don’t think so. There’s something scary about this guy. I mean, it didn’t seem to bother him at all.” Eddie leaned forward to look directly at Eli. “Hey man, you listening?”
“Will you stop talking for three seconds? I’m trying to fucking think. Just shut up and smoke.” Eli rolled his head on its side and smiled at Eddie, trying to stifle a laugh and then letting it go. “Man, that’s what I always say.” He snorted, watching the tick in Eddie’s neck. Then, in a mock shriek, like a heavy metal singer, he yelled: “Just shut up and smoke, muthafuckah!”
“Dude, I’m serious.”
Eli moaned and sat up straight as Eddie took a long hit off the pipe, taking in a series of short breaths and holding them, letting the smoke fill his lungs and the pressure build. Eli shook his head and stared at the Metallica poster affixed to the opposite wall with yellow thumbtacks. It seemed slightly off center on the wall, crooked, the right side just a little lower. Maybe it was him.