Keeping The Record. Travis Richardson

second baseman is breaking my record.”

      “It’s true ma’am, he’s on the verge of breaking… did you say my record?”

      “You ain’t nothing but a liar. Everybody knows that only outfielders, first basemen, and maybe, and I mean the slightest maybe, a third basemen can hit enough home runs to even come close to my record.”

      He slammed the phone down. Probably some shock jock radio host trying to get a rise out of him so he could air it all over the nation. Another humiliation. Everybody couldn’t get enough of tearing him down.

      Roy glanced at the empty wall, recalling a time when gold gloves, MVP trophies, and silver slugger awards were mounted all over his house. But then he had to sell all of them, along with his World Series rings. All he had left was his name in the record books for most home runs in a single season and the home run trophy he’d hidden from the collection agencies. Of course, there was an asterisk by his name, accused of doping and all that malarkey, but fuck ’em. Even with that damned asterisk, Roy’s name was still at the top of the list. Nobody had more home runs in a single season than he did.

      Up until a few years ago, he had made sure of it too. If any hitter hinted at breaking his record, he would contact his agent, back when he still took his calls, and arrange for some middle relief pitcher with a piss-poor minor league contract to toss an inside fastball right on the knuckles. Broke a slugger’s fingers, but the others got deep bruises on their hands and fear of inside pitches for the rest of the season. For a million a pop, he could afford it… back then. Now, he could barely afford rent or even a dollar taco. Times had changed and not for the best.

      He shook his head. What if it was true about that Jose guy? A second baseman? For real? That’s either bullshit or some new designer juice. The question burned through Roy’s brain, and it was too much. He had to find out. Too bad he didn’t have cable any more. It meant he’d have to go outside. He hated that almost as much as he hated the asterisk and the changes… those motherfucking changes.

      Roy grabbed his wig, a black curly mess, and pulled an oversized muumuu over his sweatpants and t-shirt. It was just easier this way. He caught his reflection in the mirror.

      “You are one ugly woman.”

      He stepped outside in the cold September breeze that blew in from the bay. Where to start?

      It might not hurt to ask the stoners next door. Idiot white kids who probably had all the breaks and threw them all away. Whatever money they had seemed to go up in smoke, literally. If it wasn’t for the loud music and reek of pot, they might not be bad neighbors. He tapped his huge knuckles on the door, and it creaked open. The first thing Roy noticed was that the apartment didn’t smell like pot. A burnt scent of chemicals and metal contained the stench of evil. Upon entering he understood. The stoners had graduated from the wacky tabbacky to the harder stuff. On the floor, Jason, Eric, and Punkass – it was what he answered to – lay with their heads propped up on a filthy sectional couch. Their mouths were open, eyes vacant, staring off into unknown horizons.

      Were they dead? Looking at a syringe, Roy remembered his own dates with the needle. But the results were so very different. If anything, after juicing, Roy wanted to not sit. He wanted to knock the Rawlins off of a fastball or knock the head off of the opposing pitcher with his fists or even one of his own teammates if they were too obnoxious or fuck his woman or anybody else’s, hard, like he was running for a triple. Of course, that last part, his sexual drive, diminished along with the girth and length of his other bat. It had shrunk almost to the point that the only thing left for it to do was invert itself and become a vagina.

      He shook his head. He needed to think of something besides the past. Just focus on the future and see if this Jose character was for real or not. These guys were useless, but maybe he could watch their TV while they hibernated in their medicated slumber.

      He turned off the music so he could think. It was some sort of electronic space bullshit. The thought crossed his mind to smash the stereo, but he let it be. If these guys OD’d at least he could pawn the unit for a few bucks. Looking at the TV, he tried to figure out how to turn it on.

      “Wha ja do that fooor,” Punkass said with drool running down his mouth.

      “How do you turn this thing on?” Roy asked, ignoring his question and running his hands over the flat screen. How could junkies afford this?

      “Button, bottom right side.”

      Roy turned it on, a blue screen lighting up the room.

      “Okay, where’s the remote? I need to watch ESPN.”

      “We don’t got cable no more, Ms. Brands,” Jason said from behind Roy.

      Roy jumped. “I thought you was dead.”

      “Naw, just trippin.’”

      “Uh huh. How about Eric. He don’t look too good.”

      Still on the floor, Jason hit Eric with all the power of a deflated balloon. Eric didn’t react, his eyes wide staring at the ceiling. Roy kicked Eric with his size 14 shoe.

      “Are you alive or are you dead, man?”

      Eric blinked, but nothing else moved. Good enough.

      “I gotta question for the three of you. Any of you guys keep up with baseball?”

      Punkass had faded out, and Eric continued to stare into the nothingness before him.

      “Used to collect cards back in the day,” Jason said. “You… look a lot like your brother, Roy, Ms. Brands. I swear it. Perfect match. I had your brother’s rookie card but only sold it after it wasn’t worth much. You know, after the scandal hit. Stupid me.”

      “Do you all know Jose Morales?”

      “Is that the dealer on Mission?” Punkass slurred.

      “No that’s the cross-dresser Josie Moore, Punkass.”

      “Right, right.” Punkass started to nod off.

      “Jose Morales. None of you have heard of him?”

      “No ma’am,” Jason said.

      Roy flexed his fingers. He hated being called ma’am. “Okay then. I’ll leave you all alone, just keep that volume down.”

      “You got it,” Eric said, catching Roy off guard.

      Crazy these fellas shooting tar into their veins. Nothing good would come of that. Roy heard his phone ring through the paper-thin walls. He hoped the boys didn’t hear him crying sometimes when his estrogen levels went out of whack and everything seemed so rotten and awful. Besides, it felt good to have a good cry every now and then, but what he did behind closed doors should be his own private business. The telephone ringing brought Roy back to the present. It could be that reporter. It had to be.

      Roy tore out of the stoners’ room and entered his apartment, grabbing the phone on the third ring.

      “Tell me more about this Jose character.”

      “Is this Roy B. Brands?” The caller had a deeper, harsher voice than the kid who had called earlier.

      “Yes it is. So who is this guy who has the nerve to think he can break my record?” Roy said. This had to be that cub reporter’s boss.

      “Mr. or Ms. Brands or whoever the fuck you are, I have a piece of paper in front of me sayin’ you owe me one-hundred and eighty-one thousand bucks, fucko. I’m intendin’ to collect—”

      Roy slammed the phone onto the cradle. It rang again immediately, and he ripped the cord out off the wall, sending bits of plastic and wire across the apartment. Good Lord, he had been trying to stay on the down low, and he’d gone low down to do it. But now it looked like they’d found him again. That asshole creditor was just one of many who were trying to track him down. Was the whole home-run-record-breaking-Jose-thing a lark, a motherfucking hoax used to get gullible Roy Brands to admit he was living in a dump in the deepest, darkest wasteland