Daily Log of a Fresh-faced College Graduate
May 17, 2013

The next day, we take Mezzy and Belinda back to Lexington.  It’s a short trip by our standards – only about three hours.  I can tell Don-o is anxious, and I Belinda is ready to be home.  The only person I can’t tell much about is Mezzy.  She sits in the backseat with her hair flowing in the breeze and her sunglasses covering those green eyes even though the sky is clouded most of the way.  The radio station is a mountain thing that fades in and out as we travel through the hills.  I hear a strange arrangement that includes the Smashing Pumpkins and Cake in between bursts of static.

“You should come with us,” I manage to choke out as we’re passing Huntington.

I hope no one can hear the desperation in my voice.  Don-o literally stiffens, and I think for a minute he’s going to say something bold and direct like, “Not a freakin’ chance, dude, no way in hell are we adding a pair of chicks to this.”  But before he can speak, Mezzy says, “I can’t.”

“Screw your Dad,” I say.  Then, “Well, not really, of course.”

“It’s not her dad,” Belinda says, and Mezzy turns her head to Belinda with her lips thinned out against her face.

“What is it?” I ask.

Mezzy finally smiles and pushes her bangs from her face.  “I was going to wait until we were there, but now that motor-mouth has pushed it – I got a phone call this morning.  I’ve been offered an internship with the Thoroughbreds.”

“That’s freakin’ cool,” I say.

“It’s only minimum wage, but I’ll be working for the stats crew.  Gathering numbers, making sure the media gets them.  You know… stuff.”

“Righteous bucks,” Don-o says.  He seems happy.

“Jebus, Mezzy,” I say.  “You would be great working stats.”

“She’s an Economics major; of course she’s going to be great at it,” Belinda says.

I’m annoyed at her, but I ignore it and turn completely around in my seat to talk to Mezzy.  “Seriously, that’s freakin’ awesome.  You’ll be working in baseball.”

“Yeah.”

“Why were you going to wait to tell us?”

Mezzy pauses and gets a big smile.  “You guys interested in seeing a game from the press box?”

“You can get us in?”

“I’ve got four passes to tonight’s game as a welcome gift.  I know you guys have already seen C-1, but if you’re interested, they’re yours.  Consider it my gift to your trip.”

“Awesome,” Don-o says.  I agree, and Belinda is okay with it, too.  I turn back around and the radio plays the Eels singing something called Grace Kelly Blues.  It’s strange, strange music here in the hills of West Virginia.  Feels like an old David Lynch thing, but somehow it fits.  Annie gives a shudder like a cat’s purr, and we head down 64.

#

We see Connecticut dump the T-Breds 4-1 behind António Cruz’s seven-and-a-third inning, five-strikeout performance.  The game is played in 50° weather, but it’s a comfy 73° in the press box and we have coffee and Chex snacks at our beck and call.  A waiter is around to take our drink orders, but during the middle of the fifth, Don-o goes and gets us some beer and polish sandwiches.

Something is different about him here in the press box.  He’s usually dialed into the game and talking to himself by now – but while he is clearly enjoying himself, he’s distracted tonight, distant from the game as if the glass pane between us and the players has broken something inside him.  Instead of watching the game, he’s splitting his attention between the rows of screens above the media center where every game in the league is rolling past.

Mezzy works the whole night.  Her job seems to consist mostly of being introduced to about a hundred people.  She smiles with each introduction as she talks to reporters, runners, team employees, ushers, vendor representatives and agents.  If I were her, I would be swimming in insecurity about it all, but my guess is that by the end of the night she has every name tucked neatly away inside her head.

When the game is over, we hear the clicking of fingers on keypads, the squeals of chairs being pushed back and he sound of chatter and footsteps as reporters tread toward the doors that lead to the locker room.  The loss is Kentucky’s fifth straight, and though the season is not yet a third of the way through, you can feel a business-like .500 season malaise setting into the environment.  Everyone, it seems, from the players to the beat hacks to the room attendants, are going about doing their jobs.

“Did you enjoy it?” Mezzy says as she sits down beside me.

“Yeah,” I say.

“It’s an interesting way to see a game,” Don-o says, using the term “interesting” in an ambiguous way.  His eyes are on a screen where Arlington‘s Joseph Lane is facing Charleston‘s Orlando Maldonado.  It’s the top of the 9^th, two outs.  The Statesmen have a one-run lead.  Lane strikes out looking, and the Statesmen win.  Don-o frowns.

“I can get you in here the rest of the series if you want to stay,” Mezzy says.

I’m about to accept, but Don-o answers first.  “We can’t.”

“Why not,” I say.

Don-o wheels on me.  His stare burns holes in the back of my head.  “We can’t.”  Then he turns and walks out of the press box.

It gets very awkward in Don-o’s wake.  “I guess I should go,” I say.

“Yeah,” Mezzy replies.  Belinda, I note, picks up her purse and makes some talk about checking her makeup.

“Will I see you again?”  As I say it, I know it sounds dumb as hell, that it’s a line that’s been uttered in about every movie that’s ever been made – a line that I’ve heard myself more often than I would like to admit.  But now that the positions are reversed, I understand that it’s the only question that matters.  So I say it and I mean it, and I wait for the answer because there really isn’t anything else to do.  I am, I realize, completely pitiful.

Mezzy glances down.  “Depends.  Are you going to be in Lexington?”

“I don’t know.”

Mezzy gives a little chuckle.  “Look, Casey, it’s been fun, but let’s not get all silly here.  You’re going to finish your trip and go wherever you’re going to go, and I’m going to work here and see what I can make of things.  We had a great road trip.  Let’s just leave it there.”

I breathe a sigh in through my nose.  These are the only words that make sense, yet they sting.  I don’t want to talk because I’m afraid my voice is going to crack and that would be hella embarrassing, so I purse my lips and nod.  “Okay,” I finally manage.

“You had better go get Don-o.”  She touches my arm, and smiles.  Then she tiptoes up a bit and kisses my cheek.  It’s nowhere near as satisfying as the last time.

Then she’s gone.

#

I find Don-o sitting in Annie’s passenger seat.  He’s got his fist wrapped around a bottle of Bacardi 151, and I can see by his eyes that he’s flying.  “Gotta get to Arlington,” he says.  “Fate of the freakin’ world!”  He swigs the alcohol and points it my way.

I think about Mezzy and I take the bottle.  The rum is too sweet going down, but it burns when it gets to my stomach.  I get in the car and look into Don-o’s eyes.  They are already dilated back so they look like a pair of black holes.

I take another drink and hand him the bottle.  He swigs.  I hear the hollow sound of liquid on glass.

“Come on, Casey,” Don-o says.  “Light this candle.”  I know then that it’s going to be a long night.