Marky’s team finished off their half of the inning without a hit. He trotted out of the dugout and readied himself at the edge of the infield. He watched his pitcher loop a knuckleball over the batter, watched the ball find its way under the backstop, watched the catcher crawling beneath the bleachers to sniff it out. Marky felt himself losing focus, and did not fight it. He was used to it — this wistful tide that left him feeling rooted into a too-particular spot on earth, a spot where something forgotten but important had occurred, where someone from another century had appealed to the gods or invented a joke. He wished they could go back to the first inning. He wished they could start the whole season over, wished the yolky midday sun would get stuck up in the sky, that the hot breath of summer would never cool.
The ping of the bat snapped him out of it. A pitch had been smoked back at the mound. Marky caught sight of the ball as it glanced off the pitcher’s shin. It was skipping right toward him. He barehanded it, exhaled, and flung it to first for the out.
In the final inning, Marky came up to bat again. The infielders crept in a few steps, making him feel crowded, and a plan occurred to him. He held his bat out over the plate in a check-swing pose and kept it there. He held it as still as he could, and it became clear that he wasn’t going to put it back on his shoulder. The catcher stared up at him quizzically. The umpire spoke but Marky shook him off, provoking Farmer to step off the mound and paw the rosin. Marky held stiff, gazing down fixedly at the glimmering barrel of his bat instead of facing the mound, looking like a mid-swing statue of some anonymous youth sportsman of yore. Farmer let rip a fastball that zipped past Marky’s bat and was called a strike.
“I’m considering this bunting,” the umpire told Marky. “He could roll the ball in and I’d call a strike, if you keep standing like that.”
Marky did not flinch or reset, though his forearms were beginning to tremble. Farmer’s next pitch left his huge hand and chinked off Marky’s wavering, offered bat in the same instant. It took everyone a moment to locate the ball, which had blooped over the drawn-in first baseman and trickled onto the outfield grass. Marky pulled up with a comfortable single and peered at Nelson Greer, hoping for any reaction at all.
***
After the game had been lost, Marky mounted his scooter — a wood-framed chopper with angry bees painted all over it — and whined out of the swampland and away from the diamond. Marky had found the scooter near the railroad tracks and had it overhauled by the trade school mechanics, who’d made it too powerful for its own good. He stayed in third gear all the way to Hurley’s house.
Hurley was in the custom musical instrument trade, among other things, and Marky needed a one-of-a-kind bass drum for a band he wanted to manage. He had known the guys in the band awhile; they were a few years older than him, upperclassmen at the local high school. Their band was called Some Cars Are Trucks; it featured a genius on harmonica but suffered from a dearth of thump and an even more alarming dearth of gimmick. Marky figured the absurd drum would get the band noticed, make them memorable, and from there talent could take over. The vast majority of bands wound up fizzling and breaking up, Marky knew, but he thought he might as well try to jumpstart these guys and if anything happened he’d be in for ten percent. The harmonica player really was amazing, and the band’s songs were sad but not too sad.
He stepped high through some weeds and then scaled the manmade hill Hurley’s house perched atop. He knocked on Hurley’s door and it opened instantly. The man seemed older than Marky remembered — bearded, wearing a tennis outfit, snapping his fingers in thought.
“Marky,” Marky said.
“Oh, I know. I like to see how people say their own names. Are you a Scotch drinker?”
“No, not really,” Marky admitted.
“I know. I’m kidding with you. You’re a teenager, you probably only drink beer.”
“Nothing right now, thanks. I’m kind of on a schedule today.”
Marky got a look at the living room, cluttered with record players and stacked terrariums, then Hurley ushered him down to the basement, which was twice the size of the house and was divided here and there by hung tablecloths. Basements were rare in Florida, and being in this one made Marky a little nervous. It held racquet-stringing equipment, painted steel barrels, and plain tables to which vices clung. Marky was still wearing his cleats, and he stepped gingerly on the concrete floor.
“Can’t light up down here,” Hurley said.
“That’s okay, I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t drink, don’t smoke. You sure you’re a teenager?”
“Basically,” said Marky. “I’m on deck to be a teenager.”
“Hey, before I forget to tell you, I’m getting a bunch of books in next week. You should come back and take a look. I’m going to price them at a penny a page.”
“Where are they from?”
“They were trying to start a college over in Redleg, but the money fell through.”
“Oh, I heard about that,” Marky said. “That Bible college.”
“A couple of them I’m keeping. There’s one all about how kings used to blind architects so they couldn’t build the same castle for anyone else. Or cathedral or whatever. And there’s one on carnivorous plants. Now that’s a poker face — a hunter that has to have the prey land on him.”
Marky nodded, holding an appreciative look on his face. After a moment he said, “Anyway, that bass drum. We talked about it at the pancake breakfast.”
Hurley bared his teeth, as if for inspection.
“Twelve foot across,” said Marky.
“Now if it’s too big, you won’t be able to hear it.”
“Really?” Marky asked. “Why, too low a register?”
Hurley looked off, skeptical of his own assertion. “Well, no. I guess you’d hear it. You’re going to hear it and also feel it.”
“Ever make one that big?”
“No, I made a pretty big one for some people holding a parade once, but not twelve foot. Made a lot of stuff for those guys. Parades used to be much better than they are now.”
“The ones I’ve seen have been lame,” Marky agreed.
“You missed out on a lot of Golden Ages, and the Golden Age of parades is one of them.”
Marky tried to think of something that was enjoying its Golden Age right now. There had to be something. He had the sensation, in this basement, that he was being filmed.
“I ever tell you about the radio station I used to own?” asked Hurley.
“Yeah,” Marky answered. Maybe Hurley had told him about the radio station and maybe he hadn’t. Marky couldn’t remember. “I don’t mean to be in a rush, but I was hoping to get a price from you and scoot on.”
“Oh, for sure,” Hurley said. “On the run. I know.” He ducked behind a curtain then reappeared with a form, which read:
CUSTOM TANK
CUSTOM RACKET
CUSTOM INSTRUMENT*
If ___________________ cannot be delivered by ___________________, the sum of ___________________ will be refunded in full to ___________________.
X ___________________
X ___________________
“Waterproofing’s extra,” Hurley said. He pulled a calculator from somewhere.
“Let’s just skip that.”
“Moisture can kill a drum. Getting caught out in the rain. Or just the humidity on a porch, even. It can totally dull the sound.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll do without it, though,” said Marky. “These guys rehearse at the community college. They should be fine.”
“You may regret that, little dude. I don’t sell insurance for these things.”
“I don’t buy insurance. I’m not sure I believe in it, actually.”
Hurley took a retreating step, then for effect he took another. “That’s badass,” he said. “Tattoos and gangster rap, those are just products. Refusing insurance is badass shit.”