Bob is Waiting

Bob could see their mouths move. His eyes followed the path of the baseball as it flew from Phil to Danny and back. It arced through the cloudless sky in the empty lot. Its path flowed in an intricate theme and repetition of high flies, line drives and grounders. Bob saw Danny push a sweaty mop of straight brown hair out of his eyes, watched him scratch his shirtless chest. He chuckled along with them as Danny bent over laughing at something Phil yelled and winced when Phil shook his hand in the air after snagging a fastball. But he couldn’t hear a thing. There was not a sound from where he stood, behind the spotless glass of the kitchen window two yards away. No noise except for Bob Barker’s voice coming from the TV down in the basement.

Bob’s parents were working as usual: his mom at the grocery store and his dad at the Ford plant. His brothers were both out somewhere. Probably driving around with their friends, hitting on girls up in Stillwater. So it was just Bob and Bob, followed by Samantha, then Jeannie on Channel 5 and finally Mel Jazz’s Matinee Movie on Channel 11. He had memorized all the programs on all four channels. If anyone ever wanted to know when something was on, they’d just ask him. A walking TV Guide, his mom said. Bob Barker was his favorite, though. They had the same name for one thing, and Bob reminded him of his father. Except Bob never hit you. And he was funny. And he gave you things. All you had to do was guess the right price. Even if you didn’t get it right, you probably got a t-shirt or something.

Bob pushed the faded, olive-green curtain out of the way to watch Danny throw one of his special curveballs, then run over and high-five Phil after he caught it. He remembered how one time last winter Danny had to sit next him on the bus to junior high because there was no other seat left. “How’s it goin’, man?” Danny had asked and their knees almost touched.

The dripping faucet in front of him brought his eyes downward. He noticed the forgotten glass of milk in his hand. He wouldn’t have known Danny and Phil were out there if he hadn’t come upstairs for another glass. He took a sip. Gross! Why did Mom have to start buying skim? He tugged at the binding waistband of his husky jeans.

Bob set his plastic glass down on the counter and pictured himself out there with them, shielding his eyes from the sun and forming a triangle with the other two guys. He’d throw a grounder to Danny, making him dive for it and roll in the grass in his cutoffs. But Danny’d scoop it up. He always did. Phil, in his perpetually dirty undershirt, would throw Bob a high fly right into the sun to blind him. But this time Bob would catch it. “Way to go, man!” Danny would shout and Bob would toss him the ball with a “Thanks, man!” They’d play all afternoon, getting hot and sweaty. Then Danny’d invite him to ride bikes over to Selma’s to get ice cream. Bob stood at the sink smiling to himself imagining what kind of ice cream he’d get.

The sound of the Showcase Showdown came up the stairs so he gulped down the rest of his milk with a grimace and put the glass in the dishwasher, remembering to rinse it out first. As he passed the front screen door on his way back downstairs, the boys’ laughter came to him.

He froze.

His pulse quickening, Bob turned and headed out to the garage. Kneeling on the gritty cement, he dug through the trunk next to the door. Unused tennis rackets landed on the floor. An old Monopoly set spilled its fake money at his dirty knees. Finally his hand touched leather. He pulled out the glove his dad had given him for his birthday last year. Slamming the backdoor, he huffed across the two yards; making an arc around the Bergman’s yapping Pomeranian. Stupid dog! When he rounded the lilac hedge framing the empty lot, Danny and Phil were walking away – going down to swim in the river at Phil’s house probably, or to spear carp in the creek behind Danny’s.

Standing there, slamming his right hand into his empty glove, Bob looked around at his feet. He picked up a stone about the size of a golf ball and threw it awkwardly and forcefully towards the two boys. It landed unnoticed ten feet behind Danny and rolled to a lazy rest under the dandelions. He picked up a second, third and fourth stone and wildly threw them one after the other with a force that made his arm feel like it was going snap off his shoulder and fly after them. His last stone was a jagged, multicolored agate that on another day he might have kept and stored in his cigar box of treasures up in his room. It burned through the air and quickly disappeared from his sight. From the other edge of the field he heard a dull thud. Danny’s head snapped forward and he stumbled to the ground. Standing there with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, Bob’s eyes shone and his lips formed a tight line on his face. He shook himself and darted behind the lilac bush. Through the leaves he watched Phil help Danny to his feet. Danny touched the back of his head tentatively, and then looked at his fingers. Both Danny and Phil looked towards the lilac bush and Bob flattened himself in the crumbling leaves and dirt at its roots. Through his watering eyes Bob could see Phil say something to Danny. Danny chuckled and he walked away, glancing warily around. He was still rubbing the back of his head.

Bob almost called out, “Hey Danny! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Really, he almost did. But he stood and slumped home. Bob was waiting.