The book is a collection of inter-related short stories about the "days" of the subconscious; flight, teeth, rats, baseball, nuclear war, pre-Genesis, family noir, insanity et cetera. It keeps a dairy of it's troublesome recurring "dreams", where everyday it wakes up, goes to a job it despises with people it hates then drinks itself into oblivion.
"MAMMOTH"
He could hear him, all the way across the field from the first base side metal grandstand. “Keep your eye on the ball Billy,” his Father said, a little too loudly. Billy took his eye off the plate, laid the aluminum bat on his shoulders, and looked at his father through the chain-linked fence. His father was not quite sitting, not quite standing. He was clapping his hands together in a series of quick, loud pops. He pointed a finger at his eye, then at the pitcher. “Eye, Billy,” he said. “The ball.”
Billy lifted the bat off his shoulder, gripped the foam rubber of the bat too tightly, and glared at the pitcher. The pitcher’s uniform was bright yellow, with the words Heindrich’s Automotive written in white slanted cursive across the front. Billy noticed that the pitcher was wearing socks with the stirrups painted on the side, not like the uncomfortable, real, blue stirrups his manager Mr. Cox insisted that the boys wear. Billy began to think about how they were so annoying, riding the arches of his feet. He wished he could move them, maybe to his heel at least...he sensed the catcher changing position in is his squat. Though he didn’t even see the ball, he swung. He was late on the curve.
“Steee-rike Wha!” said the umpire.
Numerous parents applauded, but Billy’s father was louder than ten parents put together. Billy again looked over at the metal grandstand. His father was now standing straight up, his hands cupped in front of his mouth. “Keep your EYE on the BALL!” he bellowed, returning to his three-quarters erect position and the loud hand pops.
The Blue Sox shouldn’t really have made it this far. Injuries had tripped up the Coyotes and the Dolphins, and that was the real reason the Sox were facing Heindrich’s in the little league finals. Billy could feel his hands cramping, but he refused to relax them. His father said that great hitters always gripped the bat tightly. His father named men Billy had never heard of to emphasize the point.
Rose, Carew, Yastrzemski.
His father also said that great batters always keep their eye on the ball. Billy stepped out of the batter’s box, nearly putting his cleats on the plate trying to reach the next pitch, a high and very outside ball.
“Steee-rike Tu!” the umpire barked.
Billy lowered his head after missing the ball, knowing what was coming next. The other parents didn’t even get a chance to applaud the efforts of the pitcher.
“Jesus Christ Billy! Keep your EYE on the god...damn BALL!!!”
Billy stepped back into the batter’s box, tears beginning to fill his eyes.
Why me? he thought. He exhaled shakily, with his entire body. Man on first and second, two strikes, down two runs, final out. “BILLY! Do you hear me?! Keep-your-EYE...on-the-BALL!!” he heard his father roar.
Billy again turned towards the pitcher. He knew he should wipe away the tears, but he didn’t want to be yelled at for crying after this was all over. His eyes saw six pitchers start their wind up. He closed his eyes. He could feel the hot tears stream down his cheek. He took all the way.
‘Steee-rike ‘He!”
The parents of the other team swarmed the field; Billy stayed where he was.
He began kicking the dust that had long ago buried the white lines leading to first base as he walked towards his dugout. Mr. Cox slapped him on the back, but didn’t look at him. “Good job Billy,” he said. He didn’t mean it, and Billy knew it.
Billy collected his glove, and put the batting helmet and bat in the team duffel bag. Then he went out to where his father was waiting for him.
Just like Mr. Cox, his father wasn’t looking at him. Just like Mr. Cox, he was looking over Billy’s head, trying to contain himself. Billy walked slightly ahead of his father towards the Oldsmobile. He felt the sting of his father’s open hand as it smacked the top part of his head, sending his blue and white baseball cap flying across the parking lot.
“What the fuck was that?” his father asked.
Billy stopped but didn’t turn around.
“What did I tell you?” He grabbed Billy’s shoulders and spun him around. His father had a baseball in his hand. “Keep your EYE...” he said, shoving the baseball directly against Billy’s closed and moist eyelids, “...on the fucking BALL!” He then spun Billy around and towards the Olds. Billy waited outside the passenger side door for his father to unlock it. His father spoke to him over the roof of the car. “You’re not a fucking Davis,” his father said, slamming the driver’s side door, turning the engine and speeding away.
Billy watched the car leave the lot, put his baseball glove on top of his head, picked up his cap, and started walking home.
“...car chase. And now to sports, and Dan Ishi. We have some sad news today, don’t we Dan?”
“We do indeed Ted. Bill Davis died today at age forty-four. Most of you probably remember the mammoth six hundred and ninety-foot homerun Bill hit fifteen years ago in the ninth inning of game seven, giving the Chicago Cubs their first World Series Championship in over one hundred and twenty years. In this next segment, Andrea White gives us some insightful new information on that dramatic homerun. Andrea?”
“Thanks Dan. A voice recording of Bill Davis describing his ‘Whale at Wrigley’ was released today by his daughter following the announcement of his death. As you know, Bill always refused to comment on it, stating that because he retired immediately after he hit it, it was ‘ancient history’. His daughter had secretly recorded Davis ten years ago while they were watching a re-play of that inning at their home in Newport News.
We have edited portions of the audio tape to match the video, let’s roll that, please.”
“...World Series game. Bottom of the ninth, game seven, two men on, down two, the Cubs down to their last out...and here comes Bill Davis!”
“Wow! I don’t know about this one Ed. Manager Miguel Tejada must know something we don’t.”
“Davis led the league during the regular season with a .368 average, but has been hitless in the Series. No one was surprised when Tejada sat him after stranding ten men...”
“Gretta, do we have to watch this?”
“...fan’s reaction, this city is hungry! They haven’t had a World Championship since 1908.”
“I bet more than half of them are wondering about Tejada’s...”
“How come you never talk about this, Daddy?”
“It was the worst day of my life.”
“...Tiger’s pitching coach C.C. Sabathia walks out to the mound...”
“Because of Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, you said ‘no secrets’.”
“Okay.”
“...Gervis is ready, Davis is in the box, his hands gripping the bat tightly...”
“Ed, you never see anybody do that anymore. You have to go way back to people like Pete Rose, Rod Carew...”
“Captain Carl Yastrezmski was another...and here’s the offering, Davis misses badly on a curveball!”
“They told me right before game time that your grandfather had died. Miggy told me to sit this one out...to tell him when I was ready.”
“...Ed! I mean, what is he swinging at? That ball looked to be two feet out of the strike zone, BOTH WAYS! Up and out!”
“With two strikes on him...Davis is now stepping out of the box...he’s got his hands covering his eyes, hold on...Cubs trainer Ned McCain is running over...”
“I didn’t have nothing in my eyes. Some idiot wrote that when I went after that outside pitch, Smith threw dirt in my eyes.”
“Who’s Smith?”
“The Tiger’s catcher.”
“Oh.”
“...Davis is shaking...Tejada now comes out of the dugout, he’s got his arm around Davis, Davis is nodding, still covering his eyes...”
“Wouldn’t you just love to be in that huddle down there, Ed?”
“They told me he was dead, but I couldn’t believe it. I had to see his body to believe it.”
“...again! Two on! Two strikes! Two out! Bill Davis represents the winning run...”
“I wanted to make sure he was dead, my own way.”
“...this crowd! It’s do or die!”
“...Gervis with that wacky wind up...”
“I pictured that son-of-a-bitch’s head was the ball. Then I swung as hard as I could.”
“...swings...A TOWERING, MAMMOTH, WHALE OF A BLAST! THIS THING IS OUT OF THE PARK! OUT OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD! OUT OF THE ZIP CODE!!!”
“Ed, I don’t think Davis can score! Thirty-six thousand fans have streamed on to the field...”
“...Bill...(sob)...Davis has...(sob) done it!...C-c-cubs win, Cubs...(sob)...win.”
“Gives me goose-bumps still. Thanks Andrea. Ted?”
“Dan. Hmm. Wow. Cubs win. In China today, the Democratic alliance has passed a bill outlawing the Communist party...”
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
The Butcher's Boy
- 2011 Readers Favorite Award Silver Medal Winner in Horror - Fiction
A Paranormal/Chiller by Michael Robb
Thirty-one years ago, Buxly the Butcher went to trial for killing h
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
