Nobody Bats a Thousand Read Free

receiver fr om his ear. He sat stunned, pausing before he set down the phone. “She called me a fuc king son-of-a-bitch and hung up.” A nother pause. “You think she’s mad?”
    “Just mean s it’s time to roll for another. ” Fatboy slid him the dice cup. “Loser starts it up.”
    “No way, these two jerks are taking me home or somewhere. Maybe the EZ motel is a better stop for me tonight. Come on,” the mystery roller commanded as he pushed his drink away and stood. He nodded to Fatboy, Randy, and Bobby Hill. “It’s been a business doing pleasure with you,” he said as he turned and headed for the door.  Manson and Mason both snickered and, unwilling to sacrifice their winnings, gulped down their full glasses of vodka and grapefruit juice.
    “You did it again, you dumb old shit,” Randy said to Fatboy. “You chased off the golden goose. ”
    “Did not.”
    “Did to.”
    “Did not.”
    “Did to.”
    “What a sparkling debate,” I interrupted. “You two ought to turn pro, maybe get your own talk show.”
    “Not with this old coot. You put him on TV, the first thing he’d talk about is the joys of sex with seventy-year-old women or something…”
    “Would not.”
    “Would to…”
    A few minutes later I gave last call for Happy Hour. This stimulated a short round of frenzy that was quickly over, and during the next thirty minutes the room slowly started to clear.
    Later, I was changing channels on the television when Big Al, sweating, a dirty apron around his waist, came in from the kitchen. The bar was almost empty now except for Jane and her three guys at the far end, and Fatboy and Randy next to the waitress statio n. Al pulled out an empty stool two down from Randy and plopped down, resting his big hairy forearms on t he bar. “Give me a drink, Jimmy.” H e looked to his right. “How’s wit you two guys?”
    “Everything is just fine with me, Al. Doing good. Business is good, so everything is good. ” Randy took a slow glance at Fatboy next to him then turned back to face Big Al. “Don’t judge me by the company I’m keeping, things just happen.”
    “Hey Al, there gonna be any naked women at this here show tonight?” Fatboy asked.
    “That I wouldn’t mind so much, but there better not be any of those smash pits with that smash dancing.  I told Little Al that’s one thing that’ll really tick me off,” Al said, just on cue, as the soundman with the short, bleached punk haircut stepped up to the bar.
    Big Al, in his best, thick-neck, natural, thug-like way, stared at the kid until the kid finally stopped trying not to notice and gave Big Al a weak smile and said hello.
    “You in the band?” Big Al still hadn’t taken his eyes off the kid.
    “No, I do sound.” H e checked his watch. “The band was supposed to meet me here thirty minutes ago to do a sound check.  I hope we didn’t get our signals crossed.” He looked at me. “You got any matches?”
    “All musicians are idiots,” Big Al said. “I’ve been dealing with ‘em most of my life. Some are complete idiots, some are just part-time idiots, but they’re all idiots just the same.”
    “You’ll get no argument from me,” the kid said, an unfiltered Camel dangling from his lips.
    “So, what’s this band like?”
    The kid sort of shrugged by wobbling his head. “They’re local, but I’ve only worked with them once before. The best way I can describe ‘em is that they’re grungy, but not really grunge, but still pretty gnarly.”
    “They any good?”
    “That’s a tough question. I’ve been doing this for over ten years.  I listen to ‘em all, but I don’t really listen to any. I love ‘em all, but I hate most of ‘em too, if you know what I mean.”
    Big Al nodded his big head, finished his drink, and pushed the glass toward me holding his large stubby hand straight out with the palm facing me to indicate he was finished. He stood. “You want something to drink?” he asked the bleached-blonde