Miles to Go, Part I

[DrewV]

Link to the preformatted version

Miles to Go, Part I

Written by D. Visscher

“It doesn’t take much to make me see
how little I know
about the simplest things.”

–Margaret Gibson, Poet Laureate of Connecticut (2019-2022)



Hartford, Connecticut

September 18th, 2034

His fingertips drummed against the surface of his watch—too expensive, and a gift he should have parted with long ago. It didn’t work—hadn’t ticked in years—and yet he couldn’t bring himself to remove it. Instead, he studied the inscription along the back face for a moment, and leaned back in the dark sedan that banked sharply down Highway 20, bringing his hands over his heavy eyelids and sighing. He hadn’t slept since Seoul. He was flanked by looming legions of shrugging maples and shuddering beeches, leaves turning in the September twilight, cut clear by heavy electric lines and the faded spray-paint of crumbling overpasses.

“Let’s go over it again.”

Tania was relaxed, one leg over the other. She set her tablet down primly on the leather seat beside hers, sitting opposite Ricky in the large, luxury sedan with her hands folded in her lap. At least the Harpoon had turned him away in a nice car. She studied Ricky McCoy in a stoic way that made him feel both guilty and indignant.

He sighed, looking out the dark window at the procession of turning leaves and abandoned parking lots. He could feel her watching him expectantly from across the cab. “There’s nothing more to say, Tania. Stop shaking your harness bells.”

She stared at him.

“Ricky, I, like the rest of the sentient population of our planet, am unfamiliar with that euphemism.”

Barely hearing her, knowing she was lying and understood him perfectly, he looked out at the rolling New England trees, and watched as they would occasionally dart into deep and alluring shadow between the electric-glow gas stations and eroding off-ramps. He knew she was concerned—knew she hid her own opinions well. What’s wrong? She couldn’t ask it. Silence in between them—rusted leaf and downy flake.

She waited to respond; her chin slightly canted.

“You can hardly blame them,” he continued at last, pulling his attention from the morning mist rolling off the Connecticut River back to his longtime assistant. He drew a small grin, despite himself, and poured himself a glass of water from the table in between them. “I guess I thought it was safe to come back to the states, now that the Andy Sharp contract expired.”

Unamused, Tania adjusted her glasses and gently retrieved her tablet from the seat. “Final round’s a good start,” she said listlessly, scrolling down a lengthy list of read emails. “You just need some more time. There’s still a few Independent League interviews. Plenty of positions in the KBO, if you can stand living in Gangnam for another year…”

“It’s over, Tania.” Ricky smiled softly at her, tracing the edges of his old, broken watch, and shaking his head. He set the water down and returned his attention to the window as she stared back at him.

“We’re going home,” he said finally, as the first sign of the airport appeared from beyond the old trees. “No more rebuilds. No more Don Quixote. No more vanishing from PEBA, just to re-appear like a prodigal son every time I can’t stop thinking about it.” He played back the bated, clumsy interview Hartford Harpoon leadership just hours ago and wished deeply to crawl under the earth and disperse into the cosmos. “We’re going home.”

“Home?” Tania asked gently, a puzzled tone for once. “North Carolina?” That made Ricky chuckle, and he returned a rueful expression to his assistant. He watched a sun-stained “Welcome to New England’s Rising Star” billboard disappear in the passenger-side mirror.

“It’s probably for the best,” he said at last as the car dove into the labyrinth of concrete passageways that swam toward the airport. “I always assumed everywhere in Connecticut looked like The Dead Poet Society. This place is a shithole.” He tapped the dead surface of the old, mechanical watch once more, watching his own face in the reflection. “A tired, disappointing shithole.”

“Not very generous for a Robert Frost type,” Tania answered, a twinkle in her eye. Ricky frowned.

“If Robert Frost ever saw Hartford, he would have stayed in the woods.”

At the terminal, the dark-haired driver unloaded the leather bags with just a little more rigidity than he had loaded them, and he sped away into the New England mist before Ricky could even offer a tip.

“Flight to Seoul’s in three hours,” Tania noted, lifting her own bag off the chipped concrete, and looking up to Ricky with a querying expression.

“Yeah.” He clicked his tongue, grabbing his own bag and pausing to inspect his weary visage in the rotating glass.

He felt Tania’s hand press into his, and her lips brushed his unshaved cheek.

“You did your best, Ricky. I’m sorry.”

He squeezed her hand, nodding, forcing his attention from his reflection to his wife’s gentle eyes. She looked down to his watch, dropping her bag to pull his hand in and inspect it with a small frown.

“Let me buy you something that actually ticks,” she said softly, turning his wrist over to study the faded gold band. He shrugged. She returned a knowing glance and set his wrist down, leading him through the terminal.

And so Ricky McCoy, failed General Manger of the Planetary Extreme Baseball Alliance, passed through the doors, feeling profound sense of closure wash over him as moved beyond his reflection at the threshold. He felt tired, but resolute, and there was something about keying in his affirmation of departure from the United States of America that filled him with purpose and relief.

Then, from the pocket of his jacket, his phone rang.

[Borealis]

Come on home, Ricky!!

I had a moment when I tried to imagine Ricky McCoy doing it Gangham Style...

[DrewV]

Come on home, Ricky!!

I had a moment when I tried to imagine Ricky McCoy doing it Gangham Style...

Right up his alley!