Authors: Frank Cammuso
2007-Eleven (4 page)
“But you can’t turn your backs!”
Said the Guy with a yelp.
“The folks up on Maple Street
Sent me for help.
They said you would come.
They said, ‘Be persistent,
’Cause a person’s a person
No matter how distant.’
I never thought you folks
Would be so resistant.”
“Go
away!”
cried McPhee.
“This is for your own good.
You’re really not welcome
In this neighborhood!
Everybody go home!”
Yelled McPhee with a sneer.
“Go home to your TVs,
Your couches, your beer!
To your cars, to your dogs,
To your burgers and fries.
’Cause this Beezle-Nut eater
Is telling you lies!”
So the Guy shook his head
And he walked out of sight
And I wondered right then
If we’d done what was right.
Soon, the crowd had dispersed
’Cept for Sally and me,
And the man of the hour,
Old Mr. McPhee.
And he patted our heads,
And he let out a sigh,
Then he took off his glasses
And winked his third eye.…
Tonight’s case in point,
For approval submitted,
Concerns simple earthlings
By Martians outwitted.
So this word to the wise:
If a stranger comes through,
And the TVs are off,
And the telephones, too,
And he tells you of death
And destruction so near,
And his tie shows a bit
Of red Beezle-Nut smear,
Consider this thought—
It could happen right here!
Let’s relive baseball’s most infamous moment,
as called by Yankee announcer Phil Rizzuto.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play;
Hey Murcer! Who’s got play-by-play? No? Really? I
do?
Those last two outs I was sitting here, thinking it was you.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
Time out. A fan running out on the field. You hate to see that.
They’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake.
Seeing that fan just reminded me of something, Seaver.
I think I got time to get this story in.
Joe Altobelli and Johnny Antonelli, who live in Rochester,
They got an Italian Open up there every year.
Hey, look,
Telly Savalas!
Almost missed him in that hat!
For there seemed little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
It’s a tournament to benefit of the Boys and Girls Towns of Italy.
And I mean, that whole town is loaded with Italians.
So I—lined to left,
I think that’s gonna fall!
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball!
You know, Seaver, I saw Ted Williams the other day,
And somebody made this remark, and I’m not saying it
Because I agree with him wholeheartedly.
But he said, “Pitchers are the dumbest ballplayers.
’Cause all they know how to do is pitch.”
So I’m asking you a simple question, Seaver.
Tom Seaver here is not answering me. Not a word.
There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell.
Anyway, what was I saying when we got those hits?
Rochester! Gotta keep talking about Rochester.
Gotta keep this rally going, Seaver.
So, you know, one thing about Rochester …
They’ll ticket your car if you’re gone for a minute.
I tell ya. They got the highway patrols out.
And look who’s up. Holy cow! How do you like that!
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place.
Hey, Murcer, know what’s on tonight after the game?
Pro wrestling! I mean, it’s a great sport.
I used to know all the old-time wrestlers.
A lot of people, you know, they think it’s all fixed.
I just don’t know about that.
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Small crowd tonight, Seaver, considering it’s a pennant race.
I tell ya. Anyway, back in Rochester.
All those Italian names in that golf tournament,
Every once in a while, an Irish, a Ryan or something,
Would get in there, just kind of break up the melody.
There was like two hundred Italians and about six Irishmen.
And who do you think won? The Irishmen won.
Unbelievable.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air.
Hey, you wanna see somebody butcher a cheesecake!
You should see Murcer and Seaver up here!
That’s a ball, outside. You’d think they’re never fed!
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
Strike?
I don’t believe it. I’m gonna have to take my pill.
Crowd really getting on home-plate umpire Durwood Merrill.
Let’s see that on replay. Look at that. I just don’t understand.…
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
Hey Murcer, you ever play chess?
A lot of money in that chess, you know. I tell ya.
A lot of money. But it’s not a good game for television.
I’m not knocking it, but it’s not a spectator sport.
Breaking ball. High and inside. Oooooh.
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo murmured, “Fraud.”
Hey, Murcer! Look!
Bea Arthur!
Didn’t she play Maude?
Anyway. Back to Rochester. Gotta get these two runs in.
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate.
You know, Murcer, I had in Rochester the best meal I ever ate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
Oh! That’s gone! Holy cow! Ohhh … no …
Oh! Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
Wait a minute. What happened? I lost it in the light.
Happy Birthday Gene Paluzzi, who I hear has got the gout.
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
“Y
ou weren’t always a frenchfryer, were you?” the boy asked nervously, standing in the dim light of the menu board.
“No,” the frenchfryer answered. “Once, I was a twenty-two-year-old man. The year was nineteen-hundred ninety-one.”
The boy was startled by the preciseness of the date and said, “Cool!”
“What do you know of the food-service industry?” the frenchfryer asked in a contemplative way, as if not expecting an answer. “Have you any idea of the vastness of our secret community? We inhabit a world of eternal youth and temporary employment, the curse of leaving our parents’ homes at three
P.M.
and not returning until midnight, after the floors have been mopped and the Dumpsters fed, then to repeat in our troubled sleep that unholy incantation: ‘Hello, may I serve you, please? … Have a nice day.’ ”
The frenchfryer sighed and stared at the drive-up window, as if it were the gateway to another world.
“Once, I was one of you,” he said. “I was young, thin, goateed—alive. I had a degree in communications from Syracuse University. I rollerbladed. I sent e-mail. It was, as you would say, ‘excellent.’ Then I came upon the Frenchfryer, Lester.”
“Like, who’s Lester?” the boy asked.
The frenchfryer stifled a smile. “When we met, Lester wore the visor cap of Assistant Manager. His impenetrable eyes were the color of Shamrock Shakes, and his radiant complexion—uh, let’s not talk about Lester’s complexion; it’s not like either of us is God’s gift to women, OK? Anyway, Lester hired me, trained me, transformed me.
“I shall never forget my first cooking cycle. As I stood beside the machine, knees trembling, my heart pounding like a drum, I felt Lester behind me, his minty breath on my bare neck, squeezing the fry-basket gripper in my hand and shaking it, delicately, deliberately, to break up the potato clumps, then lowering it smoothly into the fryer bay. Suddenly, the sputtering hot oil speckled my chin, burning me with an unearthly, delirious pain. Lester’s arms enfolded me, and, together, we
cooked—to and fro, back and forth, until the timer beeped, and we spilled our sizzling food product into the bagging station, where I collapsed from exhaustion. ‘Why, Lester?’ I asked later. ‘Why did you make me into a frenchfryer? To follow you? To worship you? To amuse you?’ ”
“ ‘I had an opening, Lewis,’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘OK, guys, clean up! It’s time for the feast.’ ”
“And feast we did: on Chicken McNuggets, Egg McMuffins, Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, Combo Meals, Value Meals, Happy Meals—until we could feed no more. Riding home, I felt the blood coursing sluggishly through my veins. I could barely hold up my eyelids.
“Others would come, last a month, then revert to their previous existences. But I shall never forgive Lester for the one who stayed: Claudia, a child of the streets whom he lured with Flintstones action figures. Soon, Claudia was emptying grease traps and punching the register, a trainee’s cap upon her golden curls. I’ll never forget the night of her transition. She cried for her mother, but Lester merely poured a large Coke from the dispenser and commanded, ‘DRINK, CLAUDIA! DRINK!’ Eventually, she obeyed her newly acquired thirst and, after draining all thirty-six ounces, shouted in a voice as
brittle as a nonspill lid: ‘MORE.’ From that moment on, Claudia was one of us.”
“Dear God,” the boy said. “A child frenchfryer?”
“Four-fifty-five an hour. Limited bennies.”
“That, like, sucks,” the boy said, the blood having left his face. “But really, I mean, that’s OK. Like, I really do need this job, you know? So please, make me a frenchfryer, please.”
The frenchfryer stared at the boy for a long time.
“Fill out an application,” he said. “Leave a daytime phone number. And one question: Can you work nights?”
Y
es sir, what’ll it be?
Diet Sprite with a slice of lemon. Shaken, not stirred.
Coming up, Mr.…
Bond. James Bond.
And what brings you to Days Inn, Mr. Bond?
Wish I could say a holiday. Actually, I’m in town to see my lawyer. I’m being sued. Sexual harassment, of all things! Eight cases.
Good God, eight? Why, once is happenstance—
Yes, yes, I know, twice is coincidence—and eight is a bloody massacre. Say, do I know you? Never mind. Eight cases. How can you be charged for such a thing by someone named Pussy Galore? You should see the docket.
Thumper v. Bond. Octopussy v. Bond.
Once, they dreamed of becoming Mrs. James Bond. Now they hyphenate their names. It’s
Ms.
Kissy Suzuki-Feldstein. Now they’ve got careers. It’s
Professor
Holly Goodhead. Honey Rider,
M.D.
God help the poor chap who unzips her gown during a physical. Back then, we didn’t call her Doctor No. I’m just tired of it all.