Springtime in high school should be a time for blossoming love, but it’s also time for baseball. This was a big dilemma for Marty, who wasn’t sure which one he should pursue, and was disappointed that the Frosh-Soph baseball team didn’t have any cheerleaders. He really loved baseball, but it couldn’t love him back. With love, as in baseball, you fail more than you succeed, and eventually learn to make the most of it. They say all in love is fair, but in baseball only 25% of the world is fair.
Nonetheless, Marty wanted to try his skills against some higher competition. He hadn’t played on a real team since the sixth grade, and was gaining back his speed after the bizarre injury to his foot. He felt athletic again, after a long hiatus. Being on crutches had built up his arm strength to the point where he was throwing and swinging a bat harder than ever before. Tryouts were held after school, and several of the guys he knew from the football team were there. The jocks were traditionally encouraged to compete for pitching and infield positions. Marty was too small to be a catcher, so he lined up in the outfield with two guys named Mike. One was his green-eyed friend from the football team – with his afro sticking out from under his baseball cap. The new Mike introduced himself right away. He was really friendly, and a little taller and heavier than Marty, with the laconic confidence of a cowboy. They hit it off right away. Interestingly, the new Mike lived in the apartment building right next to the baseball field, and he pointed out his balcony.
When Marty’s turn came to shag fly balls, the coach hit a perfectly timed line drive that gave him the opportunity to lay out and catch it in a dive. He popped up and threw a dart to the cutoff man. The coach pointed at him and nodded, and spoke to his assistant. When it came time for batting practice, Marty discovered the hand-eye coordination he employed in throwing was equally useful when hitting. He didn’t miss a single one of his ten pitches, and five were line drives. He thought he had a pretty good chance to make the team already, but when he logged the fastest time around the bases, the coach quickly told him to report on Monday for practice. Marty was stoked! Both Mike units made the team, too. They all went over to the new Mike’s apartment afterwards to get some food, and meet his parents, Pops & Babs. They were actually his foster parents, and he warned his teammates not to stare at Pops, who’d recently suffered a stroke and was in bad shape.
The three of them were welcomed by a round, bustling, pleasant woman who introduced herself as Babs. Inside, Pops waved feebly from his chair in his pajamas, but didn’t get up. Half his face sagged, and his hair was unkempt, as if he’d just gotten up for dinner. He appeared rather stunned and haggard, as if he’d been out with Boris Karloff on a weekend drinking binge. Babs politely informed them of his condition, and related sadly that they’d have to find other foster parents to take care of Mike, because it was all she could do now to care for Pops. She asked if they knew of any family that had an extra room, and if the boys would kindly deliver a letter to the principal explaining the situation, so she might “take care of this through other channels.” She confided she was trying to avoid the Social Services people, who, she said (behind the back of a plump hand), “Are a bunch of jerks.” The new Mike was quite embarrassed, and Marty was a little taken aback at her confidence, but she was so natural about it there was nothing to say but “okay.”
While walking back to Fairfax, Marty and the other Mike scanned the papers Babs gave them for the new Mike. Marty decided he’d have to refer to the Mike units with a last initial to keep them straight. The forms had a lot of legal language about a “habitable domicile” and “competent guardians” and other bureaucratic flatulence. Mike B. had three brothers living at his house, so he didn’t have room. Susie just recently moved into Julie’s vacant little closet of a bedroom at Marty’s house, so he now had the other half of the largest bedroom. He had planned to grow pot and install a drawing table, but a live-in friend or roommate would be really cool. He wondered what those Social Services people would think if they came out to the Rusty Bucket Ranch and saw the menagerie of long-haired, feral vagrants. The beer bottles would have to be cleaned up, and the bongs put away, but it might be possible to make the place look barely legal for a day. Besides, there were no boys his age in their neighborhood, and it would be a lot of fun to have a “foster brother.” Especially one who loved baseball, pot, and rock & roll as much as he did, and who was about to get his driver’s license!
Marty read in the papers that there was a modest stipend provided by the government for care and feeding of a foster child, and that gave him an angle for presenting the idea to his mom. He made his pitch that very evening in the kitchen. “It sure would be nice to have some more bread coming in,” he commented as he gave her some folding money, after cashing his check from the gas station.
“Ain’t that the truth,” she agreed distractedly, stuffing the bills in her pocket and hacking at some “mystery meat” trimmings, which she said was from the butcher down the street from the pet store. Marty always wondered about the true origin of that meat, but ate it like everyone else.
“I wonder if you could get any rent from some of our boarders, like Pippin, or Darby.” Marty suggested this because he knew it was impossible. Both of those poor, confused humans had such an aversion to money, they couldn’t handle it well enough to rub two pennies together.
“Yeah right,” she said sarcastically, and tossed something that looked like fur into the trash can.
Marty waited strategically for a long moment, as if concentrating on the potatoes he was peeling, and then mentioned casually, “I met a guy at school who needs a place to stay. He’s a foster kid, but his parents are sick and he has to find a new guardian. His name is Mike, and he’s my age and really cool.” He waited to see if he had her attention before dropping the bait, “Besides, the county pays money for taking in kids like that.”
Marge stopped chopping. “Really? How much?” When Marty told her, she put the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron. “Let’s all meet him then.” She got excited about having a barbecue that weekend, because a party was likely to ensue, which was the best way to get rid of a bag full of mystery meat. Getting drunk and gnawing on random charred animal flesh was a culturally honored frontier tradition at the Rusty Bucket Ranch.
Marty informed Mike S. of the good news the next day at school, and he was stoked. “Say wha-a-t? You have a creek out there?!” He enjoyed fishing, so Marty told him about the salmon and steelhead… but didn’t mention they were all beat up and inedible by the time they got that far upstream. Marty asked Babs if Mike could sleep over a couple of nights, “so the family can get to know him,” and return on Sunday after the barbecue. She agreed with too much enthusiasm, and their plans were set. Mike B. and one of his older brothers, Dennis, would be joining them for the weekend, as well. This was a welcome development, because Dennis had a car, and could drive them all out to Lagunitas after school on Friday.
When Friday rolled around, they all rendezvoused at Mike B.’s modest house in Fairfax. His mom, Shirley, was tall, kind and welcoming, with the wise kind of weariness that comes from raising five boys. (She counted her husband, Fred, as one of “the boys.”) She sat them down next to her youngest son, Derek, and Stew, the oldest. She was used to being surrounded by men, but it was getting a little crowded in the tiny living room – even for her. From the kitchen came a booming voice and crashing noises.
“Dagnabbit, where’s my flippin’ sausages?” More unseen crashes. “I just bought a box full of them dadburn hot links yestiddy, and they’s all gone!” The voice was obviously African American, but although Marty already knew Mike B.’s dad was black, he had never met him. Then a large, muscular man with a big pot belly came out of the kitchen wearing a tank top, and cast his searchlight eyes upon the new boys. “Holy gol’dern father in Rome! It’s a pack o’ wolves come to eat all mah food!” He glared with mock challenge, and Marty hesitated, wondering if he was serious. Then his wide face burst into a row of teeth like a piano opening up. “I’m just foolin’ ya, boy! Don’t you go runnin’ away now! Set a spell, and have some pop.” Fred turned out to be the nicest guy, with a huge heart. He owned an auto parts junkyard at Tam Junction, and had the cagey demeanor and loquacious rhythm of Redd Foxx, the star of the hit show Sanford and Son. His foul mood had either been temporary, or a performance he could turn on and off like changing channels on the TV. He was one of those characters who wielded his personality like a weapon, to keep others on the defensive.
Mike B. explained the plans to his dad. Fred slowly looked up at Mike S. and Marty, down to their ragged sneakers, then back up again, stopping with their long hair. The T.V. bleated an insipid ad for cat food. Then, he rotated his large head toward Mike B., and fixed it on him until his son fidgeted. “So, this is yer way of askin’ mah permission? You jus’ tell me that’s what yer gonna do?” His voice had that mock serious tone to it again, but with a point that pricked the conscience.
“I’m sorry, Pops,” Mike B. said too quickly, “Is it okay if I go?”
Fred blinked slowly and executed another dramatic pause, as if he was thinking it over. His head swiveled back to Marty and Mike S. with a purpose. “Y’all ain’t got no drugs out there, right?” His eyes twinkled with omniscience, as if he already knew, and didn’t really care, but simply enjoyed making them nervous in a situation like this.
“No sir!” Marty replied truthfully, because all the drugs belonged to other people.
“What about bee-ah? Y’all ain’t got no bee-ah?” He shifted his huge weight in his chair with a grimace, as if gravity was such a nuisance, but kept his captivated eyes riveted on Marty’s.
“None at all, sir.” Not yet, anyway. Marge would be bringing the beer home later.
Fred rotated his head back towards Mike B. and his voice got sharp. “I don’t want you to look at a bee-ah, y’understand me?”
“Yes, sir!”
“You ain’t gonna even smile at a bee-ah?”
“No, sir!!” Mike B. was on the verge of saluting, and Marty held his breath.
Fred waved his huge hand dismissively. “Well, get outta here then, so I can eat mah dadburn dinner in peace! I might even get mah fill tonight with some o’ y’all eatin’ somebody else’s food for a change. Shirley! Where’s mah sausages, I’m starved…” The reprieved gang of teenage boys scrambled out the door, just as he was warming up for a long soliloquy.
The drive out to the Ranch was a short but blissful blast. Dennis was a senior at Drake, and drove a battered old Chevy Bel Air station wagon that Marty dubbed the Enterprise, after a certain T.V. show, and the space shuttle NASA was currently testing. Bad springs caused the car to float and sway in unexpected ways, but Dennis knew how to handle it like a fighter pilot. At times, Marty felt weightless in the back seat, as the metal rocket hurtled over bumps or a rise in the road. Mike S. lit up a joint he’d been saving all day, and Dennis cranked up the 8-track stereo to play AC/DC as loud as it could go.