| Playground Pop Chapter Three: "Va-va-va-voom-bah!" A serial novel by Kevin Nelson (11/20/00) The story so far: Smooth Cassidy has been cut by the Giants. Seeing how down he is, one of his ex-teammates sends a girl up to his hotel room to cheer him up. Unfortunately for Smooth, his girlfriend Bobbie Sue (not to mention his wife and two children, who are on their way up as well) has also chosen this moment to visit. Bobbie Sue is now in the hallway outside his hotel room door, wearing a mink coat and nothing else. Smooth stared hard through the peephole. He had seen plenty of naked women before, but never exactly like this. "Lord," he said. Outside in the hallway Bobbie Sue was unveiling her surprise. Make that: surprises. Plural. "See what you've been missing, Smooth. Now open the door." Bobbie Sue was a redheaded former Miss Amarillo wearing spike heels and a mink coat and underneath the mink was nothing at all. Even through the limited view of the peephole, it was easy to see why she had been twice named Boobies Girl of the Month. "Lord," he said again. Her perfumed scent seemed to waft in through the door (Bobbie Sue did not exactly go light on the stuff), and Smooth imagined her lying naked on the leopard print sheets of her bed. Bobbie Sue had a thing for leopard print. Everything in her bedroom was leopard printãsheets, bedspread, pillowcases, curtains, even the soft, oval floor rug where they had done it when they couldn't quite make it all the way to the bed. "What she doing?" Call it temporary amnesia if you like. For a brief, lovely moment Smooth had forgotten that his hotel room had been invaded by an Afro-Cuban sex worker named Ramona Quarantina. He turned away from the door. "Nothing. I mean it's something all right." "What? Tell me." "She's flashing me. She's got nothing on under her coat." "No? Let me see." Ramona made a rush for the peephole. In her four-inch platforms and micro-mini skirt, she wasn't exactly Terrell Davis on a breakaway. Smooth fended her off. "Out of my way. You can't treat me like that." Ramona was a prideful woman--or man, he couldn't be sure--who sought to maintain her dignity at all times, even while in the hotel rooms of perfect strangers. "We are unionizing, you know." "Do union regulations prevent you from climbing out the window?" asked Smooth. "Is no fire escape." "Don't let that stop you." "Don't make me scream. I scream like that girl in 'Halloween.' You don't want that." "Go ahead. I'm sure hotel security would love to meet you." "That not very nice," said Ramona, reconsidering her threat. It was late Saturday night. They were at the Nob Hill Arms, affectionately known among ballplayers as "Hotel Nob," where you went to get your knob polished. A man passed by in the hallway and Bobbie Sue covered up, ending the show. "I know you;re in there, Smooth. What's wrong? Why don't you let me in?" One thing to know about Bobbie Sue: inside she was soft as a Twinkie filling. She cried over everything--wins, losses, rain delays, babies in strollers, geezer married couples holding hands, Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow," a mother duck leading her ducklings across the road, when they crowned the winner of the Miss America pageant, you name it. Drop a hat near Bobbie Boo Hoo, and she'd fill it with salty tears. And now, it was starting. The Attack of the Sniffles. Smooth slipped the bolt on the door. The last thing he wanted was a big scene. "Honey," he said, opening the door but only a crack. "Hold on one second okay?" "Why? What are you doing in there?" "One second. Be right back." He closed the door and turned back to Ramona. "Five hundred bucks, in the closet." "No sir. You asking the wrong person." "A thousand." "My blessed mama never forgive me. " "Fifteen hundred." "Two thousand," said Ramona. "Firm." "Deal." Smooth was a ballplayer. It was who he was, what he did. He had played ball every day since the age of two or younger. When he was on the ball field he knew instinctively what to do: throw, catch, hit, hit the cut-off man, pivot and fire, tag the runner, touch the bag, hit the dirt, keep your head still, see the ball. Life, he realized from time to time, was more complicated than playing ball. This was one of those times. Smooth waited until Ramona was safely hidden away, then swung open the door. Bobbie Sue blew in like a twister. "What's the matter with you? Why didn't you let me in?" She eyeballed the place like a homicide cop looking for clues. "You got someone here with you?" "Who, me?" "I know you better than that, Smooth Cassidy." "Ease up, I'm having a hard day. The Giants cut me loose." "I know," said Bobbie Sue. "I heard about it on Sports Center. They were showing replays of when you tripped over first base. That must've hurt, falling on your face like that." "Not really." "It looked bad on TV, real bad." "It didn't hurt, okay?" Bobbie Sue explained how she had caught the first flight in from Dallas when she heard the news. She called the team to find out where he was staying, shedding her undergarments on the ride over to the hotel. "Must've been a fun ride," said Smooth. "Cabbie enjoyed it. He liked my little surprise anyhow." "I bet he did." Bobbie Sue didn't need an apology per se, but she did ask for something else. "Say it." Smooth groaned. "No-hon." "Say it." He gave in. It was easier that way. "Va-va-va-voom-bah!" "All right I forgive you, especially when you say it like that," said Bobbie Sue, pleased. "You look like such a lost puppy. But I got somethin' to get your tail wagging again." Smooth then broke the news to her. "I got a little problem." "You never had no problems in that regard, honey." "Crystal and the kids are coming here." Beginning to work his neck like a vampire, she drew back in horror. "They are? When?" "Tonight." There was a knock at the door. "That's probably them right there," said Smooth. Bobbie Sue began to puddle up. "What are we gonna do?" "Stop crying?" "I've always wanted to meet her. And you've always said you'd introduce me to your kids. Maybe this is the time." "I don't think so," said Smooth. "You may be right. What if I hide in a closet? I've seen them do that in the movies." "Sure, why not? Good thinking." Bobbie Sue moved toward a certain closet but Smooth redirected her to one that was unoccupied. After closing the door he continued to hear sniffles. He found a box of tissues in the bathroom and handed it into her. "Thank you," she said. "You're awfully sweet to me." "No problem." Smooth hoped this was his wife and kids at the door because there weren't any more closets to put anyone. He opened the door and it was indeed Crystal, holding their two-year-old son Little Steve, who was sacked out in a red pajama sleeper sucking his binky. "Do not wake the baby," were her first words, spoken in a harsh guttural whisper that indicated that if Smooth disobeyed, she'd have to kill him. "Don't even think of it." Little Steve had two settings: on and off. When he was on he was a perpetual motion machine. When he was off the last thing you wanted was to have the setting click back to on. "It took forever to get him to sleep. He finally let go in the lobby. Where can I put him?" "Not in the closet." "What?" "In the bedroom. There's a bed." Crystal disappeared with the baby. Smooth stood holding the door open. In came twelve-year-old Stevie, who grunted something incomprehensible and plopped down onto the couch as if gripped by terminal ennui. "What's wrong with you?" "Everything." "Join the club." Smooth was about to shut the door when he realized there was someone else in the hallway wanting to come in. "Hi. I'm Butch." "Who?" "Butch. Friend of Crystal's. Heard about you on the down-low. Glad to finally hook up." Butch clomped in. She wore clunky boots, low-hanging baggy jeans and a lumberjack shirt. Her hair was dark black and stood up in spikes. They did a thumb shake. An uneasy quiet settled over the room until Crystal returned in a bubbly mood. She was dressed for a night on the town in a short, tight electric blue dress and pink lipstick. Like Bobbie Sue, Crystal was a former Boobies Girl who made heads turn. Early thirties, platinum blonde. "He'll be fine. He&Mac185;s out like a light. You two meet?" Smooth got straight to the point. "Crystal, what are you doing here? And why did you bring the kids?" "I couldn't find a babysitter." "I don't need a babysitter," complained Stevie from the couch. "I'm twelve years old." "For your brother okay? A babysitter for your brother." "Can I watch TV?" Crystal said "No" and Smooth said "Yes," although his came a little bit after hers and so Stevie took it as the definitive word on the subject. She reached for the remote on the table in front of her and the TV clicked on. "Whatever. It's your call. We are going out." "We?" said Smooth. "Yes, we." "Me and you are going out and we're leaving the kids with, um, Butch here? I don't think so." Crystal and Butch snickered. "No. Butch and I are going out and you are staying here with the kids. She's performing tonight." "Tonight." "That's right. At Whips and Leather. It's an after hours club down on Folsom. I'll leave you the number." Beaming, Crystal added, "Butch is a rapper." Up went Butch's fist. "Right on." "Excuse me," said Smooth, "I need to speak to my wife. You mind?" "I'm down with that." Butch took a seat on the couch next to Stevie, who was watching something inappropriate. Smooth turned and spoke to his wife in a low voice. "Butch," he said, "is a dyke." "A what?" "A dyke. A major dyke." "Oh, please. Look at her. The boots, that hair. It's all so eighties. You should feel her abs. She's ripped. Butch--" "I'm not feeling her abs." "Butch, tell him about your name." "It's a comment. A meta-name. A self-conscious mockery of the socially oppressive roles that women are forced to endure in our misogynistic, male-dominated imperialist culture." Butch said this dryly, eyeing Smooth for his reaction. There was none. She went back to the program. It was Chris Rock. "Isn't she brilliant?" said Crystal. "Her real name is Alice. And so what if she is gay? What's wrong with that? I'm having fun." "All this time you're taking breathing lessons from Butch, Alice, I'm thinking she is a guy." "I know. Isn't it hysterical?" "I thought she was your spiritual advisor." "She is. She's helping me find myself." "This is what I don't get. You're right here. What do you need to find yourself for?" "You really don't get it do you Smooth? You'll never get it." Smooth felt something coming on, and it wasn't good. With two women in the room and two more hiding in the closets, he felt a need to improve the odds. "Stevie, there's a TV in the other room. Go watch in there." "No," said Crystal firmly. "She can stay. I have something to say and it'll be good for her to hear it. It's good--what do you call it? "Modeling," said Butch, who had one ear cocked to their conversation. "Right. Modeling. I'm modeling what it means to be an independent woman." Stevie preferred to watch TV. "Is this the do-re-me speech? I heard enough of this on the drive over." "Don't wake the baby," joked Smooth as Stevie moped off. Crystal continued, "It's always been you, you, you. Well now it's time for me, me, me." "Okay, but why tonight?" "This afternoon when I came home and got your message about being released from the team, it was like I had been released too. Released from invisible chains. While you've been out playing ball and screwing around, my life has been on hold. It's my turn now. My turn!" "You go girl." "Screwing around?" said Smooth, ignoring Butch. "That's not fair." "Oh Smooth, I may be a little naive like you say, but I'm not stupid. What are you staying here for if you're not screwing around?" "I told you. I checked in here at the start of the home stand. To see if it would change my luck. I'm hitting under two hundred. I'm under the damn Mendoza line. 'Course, see what good it did me. As far as major league ball cares, I'm fucking tuna." "So you haven't been having wild parties?" said Crystal, who was nothing if not impressionable. "No." "And girls?" "No, honey. I love you." There was a disconcerting rustle in Bobbie Sue's closet. "You hear something?" said Butch. "Not me," said Smooth. "Say it then." "What?" "Say it. Butch, listen to this." "Honey, that's our private little love chant." "Say it! "Va-va--" said Smooth listlessly. "Like you do with me--" "VA-VOOM-BAH!" This was too much for Bobbie Sue, who flung open the closet doors with a theatrical flourish. "Va-va-va-voom-bastard," she said. After holding back her tears for so long, she could do so no more. They came cascading out along with a stream of well-chosen epithets directed at her (former) boyfriend, who briefly buried his face in his hands and moaned. His head lifted barely in time to dodge one of her spike heels hurtling towards him like a Pedro Martinez purpose pitch. Hopping on one foot on the carpet, Bobbie Sue reached down for her other shoe, and this one did not miss. It nailed him right above the eye and broke the skin. "Shit," said Smooth. "That hurt." "Good," said Bobbie Sue. She then apologized to Crystal and Butch for the interruption and walked out in her bare feet. There was a long silence. The only sounds were from the television in the next room. Remarkably, considering the brouhaha on the other side of the door, the kids stayed put, Stevie watching a repeat of "The Sopranos" and Little Steve still merrily snoozing away. "No girls huh?" said Crystal softly to her husband. "Should I call a doctor? I'm bleeding." "Give me your keys." "My keys?" "Yes, your keys. I am not going to let this little incident spoil our night. That would be just what you want. Now give them to me. And your parking ticket for the hotel garage too." "You're not taking Roxanne?" "Yes I am." Smooth owned seven vintage vehicles. Roxanne was a 1974 buccaneer red Super Duty Pontiac Trans-Am with 310 hp and an eagle painted over the hood scoop. It's one thing to have your wife run off with a lesbian rapper. It's another to have them do it in your favorite muscle car. That really hurt. "I'm not driving your mini-van," he protested. "Yes, you are. It's got the car seat. You'll need it for Little Steve. Roxanne doesn't have one." "So we'll see you tomorrow then?" There was no immediate response. "Tomorrow, right?" More silence. "Honey." "We'll see," said Crystal finally. "You okay about leaving him with the kids?" Butch asked as they were going out the door. "You are one strong woman, girl." "They'll be fine," Crystal replied. "He's a lying sack of shit, but he's a good dad." After they left Ramona Quarantina emerged from her hiding place. She was laughing until she saw his forehead. Smooth asked her to take a look at it, and she cleaned it and put a Band-Aid on it. Her boa, which had been coiled securely around her neck since she got there, came off. He no longer cared which side of the plate she swung from. "Thanks," he said. "And thanks for not coming out of the closet. I owe you one." "Is nothing. I figure you have enough problems. Besides, I have a good time. I watch through a crack in the door." "Tell you what. You know that guy who paid for you to come here? Put the extra charge on his bill. He won't mind." "I can do that," Ramona said, smiling. She started to go. Opening the door, she hesitated. "It not my business or nothing, but can I say something?" "Sure." "I think you better get a good lawyer." Now it was his turn for a smile. "I think you may be right."
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