Big in Japan, Hated in Venezuela 5
Not continued from last week, this is continued from two week's ago. So stick with us, here.
The hearty clunk Bill half expected to stop, once the car was chucked into gear and started moving, but it seemed to continue for the first mile or so. Well, maybe not a mile, but it was a long, straight, narrow road that gave the illusion of being a lot longer than it was because of the parked cars lining the street. And the clunking, he worked out, was the meaty thunk of breakaway side mirrors slapping shut as the non-breakaway mirror of the cab whacked down the line like Bill imagined he might do down the line of players along the first base line at tomorrow's home opener. Which he hoped he'd make, as it was nearing midnight, and he was still unsure how close he was or may have gotten to his new digs in Brookline.
He was happy that he'd projected the image of himself running down the line, slapping everyone's hands, because he'd just had a visit with the team's bankrolled sports psychologist, a guy by the name of Doctor Henry Tillman. He was on staff this year, new, to help a lot of the younger players adjust to the leap to the bigs. He actually said that a lot, which weirded some of the players out: "adjust to the leap to the bigs." But Bill liked it. It seemed genuine, naive, in a comforting way. He liked his manner, for the most part. So he'd seen him a couple times, and Tillman had him working on a lot of visualization of himself on the big stage, in the friendly confines, running around the field. Bill wasn't sure it was helping, but when he talked with his dad about it, his dad said that he might as well try it out, maybe it'll help him savor the moment even more.
The moment when the cabbie nearly lost the cab in a pothole, somewhere... maybe on Route 2, Bill thought he might not like to savor this particular "welcome to the big leagues" moment.
"Are you sure this is towards Brookline?" Trees whizzed past the window.
"What?" The cabbie swiveled around. Even if he hadn't been driving, this would have been alarming. He moved like a bear, wearing a windbreaker, just realizing it was wearing a windbreaker, and not at all happy about it. "Are you jokin' again?"
"Umm. No. I was just under the impression that Brookline was closer to Boston. I think I saw the sun setting this way earlier."
At this stage, the cabbie turned even further around. Bill wondered if he had pulled his knees up on the seat or something, to get himself in the position that he had both arms resting, folded on top of one another, on the back of his seat. "Brookline? You want to get to Brookline?"
"Umm. Yes."
"And you think you know how to get there better than me?" Bill pictured an owl's head, rotating around and around and around, willing the cab driver to keep on turning until he could get back to the road, which was not passing as quickly beneath the front of the car any longer. In fact, it wasn't passing much any more at all. Which, Bill had a feeling, it was still supposed to do, even in the somewhat different traffic rules of Boston and its environs, and especially when you were still occupying the fast lane.
"No. No. I just thought. Well, it's late."
"You're damn right it's late. And I've had enough of this!" The cabbie yanked himself around, using the wheel, which yanked that around, which resulted in the car nearly tipping over as he slammed on the gas and veered off an off ramp, back on to Route 2 (Bill was right), in the direction they had been traveling, then off the next off ramp, and back on, barely on all the wheels the car had been made to travel with, heading back towards Boston (Bill was also right about that).
An hour later, a heated discussion about the number of times they'd crossed a river that looked suspiciously similar each and every time they crossed it, some times the bridge they used to cross it looking very similar, indeed, the cabbie dropped him down by the big ship at the Navy Yard, in Charlestown.
To be continued...?
disclaimer:
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