Imagine My Surprise! (35.1)

In which it is Game Day for Keenan and Stoli

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KEENAN

35. The Luxury Suite Mêlée — Part One

So there Stoli and I were, jumping off the N Judah train at King and Third, in front of the Ballpark. He wore his St. Pat’s FC jersey and camo Giant’s cap under a light Northface jacket. I wore my 2010 World Series replica jersey, a standard Giants cap, and a jacket far too thick for the current weather conditions. He wore steel-toed army boots for stomping, and I wore trainers for running away. Because, you see, we were expecting a violent reaction to my presentation — or at least I was. Stoli didn’t see what the big deal was; he didn’t see what cause there would be for a physical reaction after being faced down by your reincarnated murder victim whose embodiment was the unimpeachable proof of an afterlife.

On the corner near the Willie Mays statue, we had a short pregame meeting. I took a keychain out of my pocket and examined it. On one end of the chain was my house key, and on the other end was a purple tube of glittery fluid inside of which was a three-inch tactical icepick defense keychain with which I supposed I could stab an attacker in the thigh before they punted me across the room. It would give them a gouge that would really smart, before they easily throttled the life out of my skinny midget body. I mean, hey, it was something.

Stoli, on the other hand, had a tactical attack pen made of military aircraft aluminum capable of puncturing through a human skull. It looked like a sort of beefy black executive ballpoint pen, and it could actually write, but it was designed to disable an enemy, either with the blunt back end or the pointed tip. You see, we felt inclined to come armed, but the ballpark had pretty stiff security with a pat-down and a body scanner. Guns and knives would be impossible, but non-descript defense tools designed to evade security were perfect. Then there was Stoli himself, who was a highly trained man-killer who had indeed killed men in Afghanistan, though perhaps only through the scope of an M24 sniper rifle.

“So did you ever actually take someone out hand-to-hand?” I asked him on the way to the park.

“Look, I’ve cleared a lot of structures and had to break a few bones to do it, but I never killed someone with my bare hands, no — do we really have to talk about this here?”

I poked Stoli in the pudgy gut roll that fell over his belt.

“You sure you can take Poins?”

“Stop that. Yes. He’s just a punk. I could put him face down in under two seconds.”

“He’s pretty tough. He’s survived prison a couple of times. I’ve seen him in action.”

“Don’t be nervous. I could sincerely put the hurt on both those guys before they knew what hit ’em.”

So, outside the ballpark, next to the Willie Mays statue, it was reassuring to keep talking because, in this new life as Keenan Solomon Harris, I had never felt as terrified as I was at that moment. And while I was now in possession of the knowledge that there was life after death — I was an experienced dyer! — I had built Franks and Poins up into the kind of boogieman proportions that only a five-year-old could conjure. I asked Stoli, “So you have your pen?”

Stoli looked down at me and made a very parental face. So annoying! He knelt on his haunches and talked at face-level to me. “Everything is going to be okay, Keenan. We got this. I’ve never seen you so worked up.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry. I feel very vulnerable as a child who is not quite four feet tall and barely fifty pounds.”

“Look, we are going to stick to our plan, top of the sixth, and when we start, you’ll stand behind me on the counter or something so nothing can happen to you. You’ll have your say, hopefully get your answers, and we’ll leave. And we’ll be done with this whole thing.”

“Really?”

He hesitated. “Well, actually I doubt it’ll go that smooth, and I also doubt we’ll be done with the whole thing.”

“What is there after this showdown anyway?”

Stoli stood up and zipped his jacket. “You live your life, Keenan. Go to ball games with your Uncle John.”

“I hate baseball!”

“It’s grown on me.”

“I’m pretty sure after today, they’ll never let us back in.”

“It’s not going to end up that messy. Stop worrying. Were you like this when you were the other guy?”

“No.”

“Well, be a little more like him right now. Let’s go and beat the crush.”

“I hope they don’t take our tactical gear.”

“Please be quiet.”

And thus, we were off. We sailed through security.

As we stepped off the escalator and made our way to the suite, Poins was waiting for us. It immediately dawned on me how different the expectations of the day were: we were here to deliver cosmic justice, they were here to deliver customer service.

Somehow, Franks had got Poins to wear a tie and jacket, and he stood there in front of the door like a gangland valet, neck tattoos extending up past the starched white collar of his shirt, Giants-orange blazer and black tie, and disgust barely hidden by his forced, blank face. All I could think when I first saw him was, Oh, my God, how humiliating! I desperately wanted to hear the argument that preceded such preparation. Franks must’ve really thought he hit the jackpot with Stoli. If I was nervous before, now I was close to a panic attack. Stoli was right, I needed to channel the ol’ Kurt Houston on this one, chill the fuck out. Unfortunately, the former me had drugs and alcohol and two hundred pounds to make him brave.

I took Stoli’s hand. Never did I feel so five years old.

When Poins saw us winding toward him through the growing crush of patrons, his posture shifted, and his inked-up fingers straightened the black tie. He did a subtle head-crane, as if to look for others in our party. When we reached him, he actually said, “Welcome to GameDaze,” then opened the door for us.

We were about fifteen minutes shy of the first pitch. Franks had put on his brit pop playlist, which meant he, too, was nervous. This particular suite was narrow but deep, with a lower lounge at the field-end, stepping up to a homey reception area. The private bathroom was on the right as you came in; the front window had a sweeping view of the field, overlooking third base, with stadium seating directly outside, below the window. In front of the viewing window was the long counter with bar stools, and behind that were three cocktail tables. The split-level step up to the reception area was notable because it was a natural choke point with a couch on one side and a short black cast iron rail and yucca tree on the other. The upper level had a small wet bar, a mini-fridge, a baseball-bat-legged side table, and a massive flat screen so you could be at the game without having to personally witness it.

As we entered, the Happy Mondays issued from the speakers as Franks set champagne on ice. There were finger foods on the left and a tub of beer and sodas on the right, with uncorked wine on the side table. Franks had gone all out to host what he thought was going to be a roomful of Giants fans ready to party down. On one hand, you could see it as great hosting and perfect marketing for future suite reservations; on the other, I saw it as Franks thinking he had a shot at something bigger. Franks himself was dressed in his schmoozy finest — no FC jersey, no Giants gear, just business casual in a khakis and a button-down. It all made me very queasy.

In any case, we entered and Franks gave us a, “Welcome to GameDaze!” with a hand-sweeping flourish. He too looked past us as the door closed. “Where’re the others?”

Stoli was ready. “On their way. Well, actually, one group dropped out. They were supposed to fly down from Seattle but the planes were grounded because of the storm up there.”

“Oh, shit! Well, I hope the others come because we have a shit load of food and drink. Anyhow — what can I get you, John?” Then he knelt to me and said, “There’s the little man. How’re Keenan? Fist-bump!”

“Good!” He held out his fist and I hit it as hard as I could with my little five-year-old fist, knuckles forward.

“Ow!” He smiled, shaking his hand. “You got a real bruiser here,” Franks laughed.

“Yeah, I’m thinking kickboxer,” Stoli agreed. “I’ll have a Jameson rocks and a cheap light beer, please.”

“You got it. Can I get you a soda and some fries, little man?”

I wanted to say, If you call me little man again I’m going to fucking stab you in the junk with my tactical keychain. But instead, I said, “Yeah, that would be great.” I ran past him and climbed up on a stool at the big window. I glanced back around the room, sizing it up, memorizing everything.

Stoli removed his coat, hanging it on a hook near the door. “You’ve gone the extra mile here, Frank. Impressive.”

Franks handed him his whiskey and beer. “That’s how we do it here.”

“What’s Poindexter doing out there? He should be in here drinking with us.”

“He’s working.”

“My people are stuck in traffic on a party bus coming up the Peninsula. They’re already going to miss the first pitch. There’s no need for him to be out there. Have him join us.”

“Well…”

“I’m requesting — as your paying guest.”

Franks smiled. “Say no more.” Franks went outside and had a word with Poins. When Poins joined them in the suite, he wore something close to a smile.

“Thanks, holmes,” he said to Stoli as he grabbed a beer. He wedged a finger inside his shirt collar as if it were choking him. Indeed, his dusky flesh bulged out over the top. “Your bar is cool, man.”

“Thanks,” Stoli said. The three of them took seats in the lounge area as I ate fries and drank a cola pretending to study the crowd.

“How has it been after the opening?” Franks asked.

“Gangbusters. Exhausting.”

Polite small talk continued as the game started as everyone joined me at the window with food and drinks. Earlier, I warned Stoli to watch his liquor after the opening round because he was going to need all his faculties come the sixth inning. When the bottom of the first ended (0–0), Franks turned to Stoli.

“So, what’s up with your people, John? They’re going to miss a great game.” Franks’ voice was edged with something like a whine, as though he was missing his chance somehow, like he went to the lame party and was regretting it.

Stoli frowned, looking at his phone. He stood up and said, “Let me call them. This is ridiculous.” He crossed up into the lounge and started an extended monologue. I don’t know if his phone was off, if he really dialed somebody, or if he was talking into a voicemail. It was a terrific bit of theater.

“Hey, Rick! What’s up, man? You’re missing the game!” Stoli paused as if he were listening into the phone. He looked over at Franks and Poins, both of whom hung on his every word. The top of the second inning started and Arizona hit a single on the third pitch. The crowd made a surly roar. “Yeah, whatever, Rick. You hear that?” Stoli held the phone toward us, toward the game, then back. “That’s the fucking Diamondbacks scoring because you’re not here! Hey…put Ginger on — you’re not making sense.” He moved the phone away from his mouth and said, “Their bus broke down in Millbrae and they had to pull off the freeway. They’re at some bar, waiting for a ride into the city.” He returned to his phone. “Ginger! I can barely hear you. What the hell happened? … Oh…oh…oh, shit … I know. Rick sounds pretty lit. When did he start? Oh. On the bus? Damn. Well, of course he kept going. So what’s the plan now? Food? Look, there’s food here. Just call an Uber limo and have them deliver you here directly. We are waiting for you. Look, I’m starting to get pissed. My host knocked himself out to make this special. My man Frank here can take care of all of you, if you know what I mean.” Stoli winked at Franks, who suddenly perked up. “Look, just handle your people and get the hell over here. Text me when you’re at will-call. Bye.”

Stoli ended the call and looked at the expectant Franks and Poins.

“Well, that sounds iffy, as you Americans say,” commented Franks. Poins undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. I pretended to be absorbed by the game and the fried cheese sticks in front of me.

Stoli shrugged it off. “Oh, don’t count them out. These guys are crazy billionaire techies who do whatever they want, whenever they want. It wouldn’t be unusual for them to show up during the eighth inning, and then not want to stop partying and rent out the presidential suite at the St. Regis. It has happened.”

Glancing at Franks and Poins, this embellishment seemed to quell their doubts for the time being and indeed renewed some enthusiasm. I had to hand it to Stoli — he had natural improv skills. He’d make a top-notch con man. Years on the street will do that for you, I guess.

So, the second, third, and fourth innings flashed by. I grew less nervous. Part of my plan was a prepared speech, a litany of accusations, arguments, aggrievements, and what I referred to as proof-of-life facts to throw in their faces. I was as ready as I ever would be. Stoli kept his drinking pretty low key, but he was building a small buzz, I could tell, and just before the top of the fifth, he took a suspicious bathroom break that I’m pretty sure was sponsored by Franks’ cocaine. This was a curse and blessing, as it might sober him up, but also might over-rev him since he was such a drug lightweight.

The score was Diamondbacks 4, Giants 2.

As the fifth inning started, Poins left the suite on an errand. Franks got all of us another drink (root beer for me) and announced, “So, I hope it’s okay, but Poins went to grab an old friend of ours who is at the game. She has shite bleacher seats so I told her to come over. You’ll like her — she’s a looker.” He winked at us.

Uh-oh. I glanced at Stoli, who was cogitating. He said, “Well, I guess it’s cool until Rick and Ginger get here with their crew.”

Franks nodded. “For sure. She has her own seat. She’s just coming to say hi.”

This seemed suspicious to me. It would be absolutely in character for Franks to hire a pro, i.e., call girl, to shake Stoli down, soften the target, as it were (an ironic choice of words, yes). This could prove problematic if we couldn’t get rid of her before the show.

If there was a Camera 2 in this narrative, I would say, go to Camera 2 for my editorial aside. Like this:

When I died and was reborn on my own birthday and given a name that shared the initials of my former self, I knew there was a cosmic puppet master directing events on this planet, third from the sun, a small system on an outside arm of the Milky Way, a galaxy of two hundred billion stars, give or take.

But, through the years, I forgot about the puppet master, as events rolled at me with a fair amount of randomness, and the decision-consequence matrix of this reality seemed to operate with no thumb on the scale. I got comfortable. Of course, when Franks’ cousin Sean showed up at my house that one time, and when Stoli returned to fulfill his destiny, I should’ve recognized the puppet master’s handiwork. I had let my guard down.

So when the door of that Giants suite opened and she walked in, I felt the puppet strings like a noose around my neck.

There she was, Dolly Velasquez in the flesh, a still very good-looking flesh, to be sure. I froze, mouth agape, as Franks introduced her to us: “Fellas, this is Dolly, a good old friend of mine… and apparently she’s a closet Giants fan — I did not know.”

She said, “Hi, guys. I know nothing about baseball except the beer is expensive.” She flashed that Dolly smile. The years had been good to her: she was slim and healthy looking. My guess was she was around forty now, and her thick dark hair had no hint of gray.

Franks continued, “This is John and his nephew, Keenan…you alright, little man?”

I nodded and managed, “Uh-huh.” Franks chortled, but John knew I was staring intently, and he turned to her.

“Hi — sorry, your name is Dolly?” Stoli asked this pointedly and looked at me. I nodded slowly.

“Yep,” she said. “For Dolores. Like the street.”

“Nice,” Stoli said, “Can we get you a drink? What’s your flavor?”

“Bourbon,” she said.

And thus, we invited my ex-girlfriend into our midst. I mean, why the fuck not?

I forced my eyes back on the game. The bottom of the fifth was just starting; the Giants had just pitched three and out.

Think, think, think. We had to abandon the plan and flee. I am not prepared to go on with this new audience member. No fucking way. We could do this another time. It was just a cosmic justice jack-off session anyway.

Someone touched my shoulder and tousled my wispy ginger-brown hair. I turned and… there was Dolly, face level, looking so beautiful and genuine, engaging me.

“Hi, Keenan. I’m Dolly. Are you having a good time?”

My breath hitched. I managed a “Hi”. I was so close to hugging her and saying I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I miss you so much I wish I had never been that guy please forgive me I really did love you I’m sorry.

But instead, I started to cry. Like a five-year-old. Perplexed, Dolly stood up, glancing over at Stoli. Stoli was also perplexed, but for different reasons.

“It’s alright. I got this. He always gets tired around this time of the game. Gimme a sec.” He came over to me as Dolly skulked away to refill her drink. “Whatcha need?” Stoli asked me in a low voice.

“Bathroom,” I managed.

He picked me up and said on the way to the toilet, “We are going to have a little time out. Back in a jiffy.”

“It’s all good, John,” Franks said. “Take your time.”

I glimpsed all of their embarrassed faces as we ducked inside the bathroom. Stoli locked the door and set me down.

“Oh, my God, Keenan. What’s happening? Is this an act? Or is it for real? I’m lost.”

I pulled myself together and wiped my nose with some bathroom tissue. I wasn’t quite hyperventilating.

“We have to abort. I can’t do this.”

He was gob-smacked. “What?!” he hissed back at me. It was then that I realized that he’d been drinking harder than I suspected. He wasn’t drunk, per se, but he was on the way. With a side order of cocaine. This was a disaster. “Look,” he continued, taking a knee. “We have to go through with it! Don’t you see? It is ordained. The fact that Dolly is here is a message from God. This is all supposed to happen, Keenan. Kurt. Kurt. This is your time to get it all out — for you to reveal the nature of reality to these fucking career criminals. They can’t get away with murdering you! I’m not letting you blow this chance and I’m not going to go through this again. This is it, motherfucker.”

“But, Dolly!”

“I know! I can’t believe you used to date her. What a number!”

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to fuck with her head. If all goes well, these guys are going to be seriously psychologically damaged for the rest of their lives!”

“Oh, Keenan. You vastly overestimate the human ability to absorb a message such as yours. Besides — face it — she’s here for a reason. God is a fuck-with! K-S-H! Kurt Sebastian Houston. Keenan Solomon Harris. I’ve thought about this a lot. Come on!”

There was a stadium-shaking cheer and a gleeful shout from the suite on the other side of the bathroom door. Then there was a knock on the door and Franks’ voice: “We just ran in two, you guys! We’re tied up! Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great! Out in a sec!” Stoli looked at me and said quietly, “Take a breath, take a piss, and let’s do this. Everything has led to this moment.”

He was right. The situation was ridiculous, but apparently this was a ridiculous puppet master we were dealing with.

“Okay, but give me til the bottom of the sixth for my speech, okay?”

“Alright.”

So, we rejoined the party, and Dolly gave us a little sympathy wave as we emerged. Poins had returned to his suspicious mode, staring me down with his shark-cold eyes. The three of them had taken the window seats as the Giants started to surge. I, meanwhile, sat on the couch in the upper lounge area, girding my loins and gathering my wits. When the inning ended, Franks got up and refreshed everyone’s drink. It also seemed everyone refreshed their noses in the bathroom, and I could only shake my head at Stoli. I pretended to watch the big flatscreen on the wall as the others retook their seats. I called Stoli over.

“Dude,” I hissed, “Stop with the powder or I’m out of here. This is the most serious event in your adult life.”

He gave me a look. “I used to be a sniper in a war with the Taliban.”

“Still,” I hesitated. “Stop that shit.”

“Okay.”

The minutes inched along. Stoli pretended to mess with his jacket near the front door, looking for something, then he messed with the door itself. The other three were distracted. When Stoli turned around, I knew it was time. There was a sudden ringing in my ear. Maybe it was stress, I don’t know, but the top of the sixth ended and Stoli stepped forward. I got up and stood in the center of the upper lounge between Stoli and the door.

“Hey, you guys, can I have your attention? Keenan has a little performance thing he wants to do for you,” Stoli said, my M.C.

The three turned and smiled in a courteous, curious way.

Franks was pleased to be past my tired tears. “Great! Whatcha got for us, little man?”

They arranged themselves in a row, audience-style. Maybe it was the booze, but Poins appeared relaxed.

“First of all,” Stoli began. “Can I get a stool from over there?” Poins grabbed a stool and handed it to Stoli, who set it down, center. I climbed atop it and sat. “Next,” Stoli continued, “And this is part of the magic trick — I’ll need your cell phones.”

They chuckled.

“Mine’s in my coat near the door,” Dolly said.

Franks brought his phone out without hesitation, but not Poins. “C’mon, PD,” Franks nudged. “It’s a magic trick, for Chrissake. It’ll be fine.” Poins reluctantly extracted his phone from inside his coat and handed it to Stoli, who took them and disappeared into the bathroom, then reappeared.

“Is that part of the trick?” Franks asked humorously.

“Sure, it is,” Stoli replied. He stood between them and me, but a little to the side so they could see me on my stool. “With that, I give you The Great Houston!”

…Tune in next week for the shocking conclusion.