42.
Ted made it to the stadium by the second inning, and got chewed out by his supervisor. The guy was a martinet. Absolutely no power corrupting absolutely. It was all trickle down from Steinbrenner. The Yankees owner’s ethos was win at any cost, and reminded Ted of nothing more than an inflated baby with a helmet of hair. His default facial expression was that of a petulant scrunched-up five-year-old who was not getting enough candy. The country was full of Steinbrenners and Steinbrenner wannabes. This hagiography of winners. Poor human, fallible, honest, indecisive Hamlet, peanut farmer, lusting-in-his-heart Jimmy Carter was losing the country, had already lost it, actually, to this vainglorious idea. Out west in Hollywood, some handsome monster was already cast, slouching forward, waiting to be born. Steinbrenner fed into and fed the inflated self-image that Ted perceived was growing stronger in New York City every day. As it became less important culturally, this notion of the city being made up of “winners” took up more and more psychic space, like a cancer. Steinbrenner was a symptom of that spiritual cancer and a cause. Proud to be a New Yorker. New Yorkers demand a winner. Really? Why? What gives that particular geographical location the right to demand a winner as opposed to, say, Cleveland? “Yankee Pride”? What the fuck was that? Mickey Mantle should have had pride that he could hit a home run hungover and drunk at the same time. That was a human feat, relatable, stupendous, and flawed. But it meant nothing to be a Yankee, to be a New Yorker, to be an American. It was a uniform. The pinstripes. Like Wall Street. This city on a hill. To cater to this nationalistic heart lurking in all men was evil, and damn good business.
Ted had a book of poems with him, and by the seventh inning, the Yankees had a comfortable lead over the Sox, and the fans started leaving to beat the traffic like Phil Rizzuto. Good thing it was a rainout. The sun was hanging in the late summer sky, like it didn’t want to set, like Ra knew that fall was coming so soon.
Ted liked to let the world sometimes offer up thoughts unbidden, by opening books to random pages and reading what was written there as a missive intended for him. In high school, he would go to the library, close his eyes, and walk blindly through the stacks, reaching his hand out, pulling a book at random, and forcing himself to read it as if sent by God. It was the closest he ever came to believing in Providence. The God of Books. God lurking in books by men. This was how he learned so much about particle physics and neutrinos, of which he now retained little, no doubt exhaled from his frontal cortex on a wave of pot smoke. What stuck with him about neutrinos was that they were massless and chargeless particles and therefore could not be seen, except in the effect they had on other particles as they passed by, banged into them, altered their behavior. In effect, neutrinos were actual ghosts. Ted felt like the opposite of a neutrino; you could see him but he had no effect. He made no particles shift. He liked how sometimes science helped him to know and hate himself more thoroughly.
Fuck science for now, he thought, all it has is truth. Poetry has truth and lies and is therefore truer than science, a more encompassing discipline. He let his finger stop on a page. This was the poem decreed for him. It was by Emile Bronnaire:
Strolling one evening
In the puritan city
We’ll go seeking…
Beyond life the dark fountain
Where the child sleeps.
There the bitter brooks of faded illusions
Will dry up.
In the day without decline in love
Without complaint
We shall live again.
If only, he thought, if only. Without decline in love, without complaint, we shall live again. Somebody yelled, “Señor Cacahuete!”
43.
By the time Ted got home, it was dark. He had some takeout from Jade Mountain, set the containers on the kitchen table, and lit a joint. He inhaled deeply and exhaled long and slow. “You’re home. I was worried about you.” Marty’s sudden appearance startled Ted.
“Jesus, Dad, why aren’t you asleep? You scared the shit out of me.”
“See, they say the pot makes you paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid, you came at me like a fucking jack-in-the-box.”
“I slept all day. I can’t sleep now.”
Marty came to the table and looked at all the Chinese.
“I don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
“This shit’ll give you an appetite.”
“No, I hear it leads to harder stuff. It’s a gate drug.”
“Gateway drug.”
“I don’t wanna become a drug addict, fuck up my future. I don’t know if my lungs can take it. Mariana would be mad.”
“Let’s see. C’mere. Shotgun. Come here. Open your mouth. When I exhale, you inhale.”
Ted turned the joint around in his mouth, lit end inside, as he gestured for Marty to lean in. Mouth to mouth now, Ted shotgunned a huge hit of thick smoke into his father. Marty held it in like a champ. It was the first time Ted could ever remember kissing his father.
44.
They went through about eight containers of Chinese takeout in twenty minutes. Marty had not eaten this much in months. After finishing the last of the moo goo gai pan, Marty belched and said, “When’s it gonna kick in?” Which they both found hysterical. Marty stared at the joint in his hand, rotating it, appreciating it.
“Where do they hide this stuff? It’s fantastische.”
“They don’t hide it, Dad.”
“Marvelous. Marvelous. Get me the phone, I want to tell the world about it.”
“The world knows, Dad.”
“Can I have more? Should I have more? Does it just keep getting better?”
“Not necessarily. Pace yourself.”
“Ah yes, pace. The ol’ pace. Can I have ice cream, then? I’m thinking that ice cream is a good idea.”
“Ice cream is an excellent idea.” Ted went to the fridge, pulled a quart, and handed it to Marty with a spoon. Marty stared, uncomprehending, at the container.
“The ice cream you want is on the inside of that carton, Dad.”
“Froooooozen glah-juh. Froooozen gladjehhhh.”
“That’s right. Frusen Glädjé.”
“What does it mean?”
“You know what it means, Dad, you made up shit like that yourself. It means to sound like ‘ice cream’ in a fake Nordic language conjuring blond images of tasty Scandinavian deliciousness. Fuckin’ works, too, hand it over. What flavor is that?”
“Cold.”
“Cold is not a flavor.”
“I meant, what does any of it mean?”
“Amen, brother.”
“Ted?”
“Right here.”
“Don’t ever let me be without marijuana again.”
“Okay, Dad. Got it.”
“Solemn oath?”
“Solemn oath.”
“And Ted?”
“Still here.”
“I can’t feel my arm.”
“That’s cool, I can see it. It’s there very near your shoulder, just below it.”
“No, it’s fucking fantastic. My arm usually throbs like a motherfucker and now it’s just floating there on cotton candy. You know you’re named after Ted Williams, right? Greatest hitter of all time. Teddy Ballgame. The ‘Splendid Splinter.’”
“I’m aware.”
“Frooooooooooooozen glaaaaaaaahjuhhhh-Haaaaaaagen Daaaaaaaaahssss.”
“Both names of ice creams.”
“Carl Yaaaaaaaaz-secezuh-tremmmmmmski. Harrrrrrrmmmmmmonnnnnn Killlllluhbrooooooo.”
“Both baseball players.”
“You must give me all your marijuana. I am opening the gate. I am walking through the gate.”
“Gateway.”
“Give me that reefer back.”
“Reefer? Really? We’re back in the fifties all of a sudden. Look at you. You want it all? Don’t wanna share? You Bogart.”
“Hummmmmm-freeeeeee Booooooo-garrrrrt.”
“Actor.”
“Smoker. No, I must have all your marijuana because my reality sucks ergo why remain in it? While you on the other hand must not have any marijuana because old as you are you have not yet made your true reality ergo you are running from something that does not exist. And regardless, if you created your reality you might find it good negating the need to escape from it through the use of marijuana, and besides if your reality when you finally created it turned out actually to be not so good God forbid then you could come to me-why? Because I would have all the marijuana and I would gladly share your marijuana back with you, I’m exhausted.”