Richard Matthews was supposed to work on Wednesday. They (the ominous They) sent him a text confirming as much. You are rostered for Wednesday; Clock-In 9:40 A.M., Stand-Up 9:50 A.M. They sent the text out Tuesday night, just like they’d done the Monday and Sunday before.
It was like a cruel reminder for him, sent out just before midnight, that it’d be best to put the guitar down, turn the heater on, and wrap himself around his fat back cat while they slept. Richard Matthews even went so far as waking up for work on Wednesday. It was odd, that day. He normally didn’t feel fully awake until he was three hours into his shift–and that was only with the help of an energy drink or gargantuan cup of coffee. But when his eyes opened today, he felt like he’d never fallen asleep. Not to say that he was tired, but rather that he felt strangely completely awake. He dressed himself and grabbed the sandwich he made the night before on his way to the truck.
Was there ever a prettier day than that Wednesday? It was cool enough in the morning to need a proper jacket and still cool enough as the sun came out to avoid overheating if he kept the jacket on. Clouds strung across the sky like cotton in a spindle picker. Somewhere there was a marmot eating its breakfast beneath a blooming yellow larch. A damned shame that he had to work on such a good day… Then another text came in: “We’re overstaffed,” They said. “Take the day off.”
Well, hot damn, what to do with the day?
The city is only an hour’s ferry ride away–and what a day it was to take the ferry. The mountains would be pretty today, too–a hike might be good. It would snow soon and the best of the fall foliage would be buried beneath its blanket of wintery purity. This might be the last chance to get out and see the sights–but tickets to the game are only two hundred bucks, he thought, checking his phone.
What’s two hundred bucks?
Boy, was the ferry ride worth every bit of its two-dollar fare. He missed the three p.m. boat (too busy teaching himself a Pink Floyd song on the guitar) and, you know what, it was such a pretty day that he didn’t mind. He had 40 minutes to kill until the next one and he walked up the street for a beer. He felt the swagger in his shoulders and the bounce in his feet. The beer tasted crispier than it usually did, the bar seat just a bit cooler and the dive-bar cigarette smoke just a little less pungent, a little sweeter. The next ferry came and he stared out of the window as it glided across the great blue. There were two gluttonous seals (real tubs of lard, these things) sunbathing on a bobbing red buoy. The ferry ripped its horn and only one of the seals even turned its head. Behind Richard (he was not an eavesdropper, don’t get it confused), he overheard two gentlemen talking–two younger gentlemen, probably not much older than himself. “Yeah, I should have taken my boat out instead of the ferry,” one said. “Why didn’t you?” asked the other. “Didn’t think I was gonna make it to the game but I found a great deal on our tickets,” he said. “How much did you pay?” the other asked. “I only paid seven hundred bucks each,” he replied. “A steal!”
Only seven hundred bucks each, Richard thought. What’s seven hundred bucks?
The ferry docked and the city was in full raucity. Helicopters flew overhead, chopping at the air with their axeblade propellers; they could be the news, covering the game; they could be the military, moving in under the guise of fighting crime. People yelled for the home team as they crossed the sidewalk, chanted the words to ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ as they stood in line to enter, tickets in hand.
Richard sat by himself. The answer to his question “What’s two hundred bucks?” seemed, at least for the moment, like the highest seat in straightaway centerfield looking directly into the orange setting sun. No one sat to his right; to his left were two casual men dressed in rain coats, sweatpants and beanies. “Not bad seats, eh?” Richard asked. “Oh, man,” one man replied. “The sun’ll set in twenty minutes and it’ll be great.”
Richard thought of walking down to get another beer. He wanted to space them out, see. Most of his week’s budget had been blown on the ticket itself–that’s not to say he regretted it, only that his extracurriculars were limited. After the first at-bat his stomach let out a clenching rumble and he thought he might have to cash in one of his hotdog coupons early when the casual gentleman, the one that Richard hadn’t even realized had left his bleacher seat, squeezed his way back next to him.
“Got you a dog,” the man said. “What?” Richard asked. “This is for you,” he said, handing Richard a red-and-yellow striped hotdog. “Geez,” Richard said. “I really appreciate this.” The man replied, “Don’t mention it. What’s ten bucks?”
The home team lost. It wasn’t the end of the world–not even the end of the series. It was, however, a long walk back to the ferry, and Richard thought he’d better get a move on. Last time he was in the city he spent too much time striking up conversations with strangers on the sidewalk and missed the earliest ferry home. That had been a long night sitting in the ferry terminal.
The night air had chilled significantly and Richard was grateful he hadn’t taken his jacket off since he went to work that morning. The city lights, pretty as they were, couldn’t match the stars in the sky, and he yearned to be out on the water, looking up at the peaceful abyss. Hopeful fans still cheered for their home team on the sidewalk, strutting, almost, past Those Without. Richard heard a song he loved, not Pink Floyd but something sung by the late Layne Staley. He turned his head and saw a man donned in a thick coat that looked like it hadn’t been taken off since last winter. The man sat next to a shopping cart with a busted wheel stacked to the brim and over it with all kinds of trinkets; the cart wobbled on an angle, like a three-legged table. Richard craned his head, squinting his eyes as if that would allow him to hear better. The song was coming from somewhere around the man and Richard couldn’t figure out where. He looked at the man. Where he looked for a radio, he saw only a cardboard sign asking for Spare Change…
The sign read, “What’s a few bucks?” // JACKSON RUIZ
