twisted truths

twisted truths


--

People are who you think they are.
It's the truth behind the lie behind the truth.

--

The first time that I met him, he was complaining about not having ESPN at home. He wasn't complaining to anybody in particular, but he was complaining nevertheless. It was one of those days where my only goal was to push through until the sun set; then I would wake up the next morning and do it all over again. I was in line at Costco when he turned around and said to me, "how does one own a television set, but can't watch ESPN?"
"I don't know." I said.
"Then you'd better figure it out." He replied. I wanted to say something back, but I decided that he was just another crazy wandering around at Costco, eating all the free samples, and then returning back with his cap on backwards or his hood on or his sunglass on his face to get more. Finally, he had felt guilty about taking all the food and settled to buy some gum up at the counter, but that was the first time I met him. The second time, I realized that our judgement sucks.

--

The second time I met him was roughly a month and half later. I didn't "meet" him, per se; we never really went through the introduction process. The second time I saw him was at Fenway Park. Fenway was the oldest baseball park on the east coast. I remember the hazy summer days where I sat far from the field, my back pressed against the splintery wooden seats when we were losing and my butt on the edge of the seat when we were winning. Fenway, yes, always the reminder that summer was here.
Anyway, that was where I encountered the man for the second time. Over the years, I had upgraded seats. From the rows all the way at the top and in the back to a pair of seats smack behind home, and occasionally, behind the dugout. I was the only one at the park, save for a few venders and kids who had arrived early at the park with their fathers'. I didn't recognize him at first glance, it took a moment of studying, a moment of squinting my eyes through the glaring sun to make out his facial features. Only then did I realize that I had seen him somewhere; his dark eyes were nearly invisible underneath his navy blue baseball cap. His tan features looked even darker as the summer sun cast a shadow across his face. I tried, for a moment, to place him in my mind. I moved closer towards the dugout and squinted harder. It was only when he spoke that I remembered him. His course, deep voice saying something about throwing sliders.
Then I remembered that he was the man from Costco who did not have ESPN. He was the man I had hypothesized was just another crazy "stealing" free samples. Except for now, his raggedy clothes were gone, the lid of his baseball cap was facing the right direction and he was tugging at a ruby red tie tied too tight around his neck. My brain doubted itself for a moment, wondering if this man in a pinstriped suit was, indeed, the crazy from Costco who did not have ESPN. I thought that it was not possible that an insane man could be standing in Fenway Park at this very moment discussing sliders with Tito Francona, the pitching coach of the Boston Red Sox, but there he was, the sample moocher from Costco talking to Francona.

In my mind he had gone from a slacking, unemployed man living off welfare to a rich manager, or friend of a manager of a major league baseball team. I watched that game from behind the dugout, trying to figure this guy out. It was a hobby of mine, figuring people out. I would make up a life story for them, where they lived, their relationship status, and their friends. I called it a hobby and my parents called it a bad habit. This man, I had decided, lived a double life. During the season he was a friend of Francona, advising him how to deal with his pitchers. He had a wife and maybe a kid, but he definitely had a dog -- he wasn't a cat person. I decided he was burdened.
I glanced over at him between innings. He went from scowling at the umpire and talking to his pitchers in the bullpen while regulating their throws.
"Take it easy, man. That was only 25. " He was saying, I instantly looked over at the sound of his voice. It was no longer course, and heavy. He was standing, arms crossed in the bullpen.
"I'm fucking trying." The pitcher responded. He rested a calloused hand on his lower back and winced ever so subtly.
"You don't wanna throw your back out again." The Costco man nearly growled.
"That wasn't me, that was the motherfucking Yankees stadium."
"'Beckett. Breathe, relax, throw a couple pitches and sit back down!!" This time, it was Francona who was screaming. He shouted a couple of obscenities through his smacking, or chewing. At this point in time, Lester had returned back from the mound, sending out a relief pitcher. He pulled Beckett away from the situation and the two walked off, leaving the Costco man shaking his head.

By the end of the game I had invented a life for this guy. He lived in a suburban home just a little outside Boston, he drove a Sudan. His kid played in the little league, but he never went to the games because he could go to games in the majors. He was a high school drop out who had wanted to go pro, but something had stopped him. I had decided, ultimately, that he was not crazy.

--

The third time I encountered him was quite the eye-opener. The third time was at another game, this time at the new Yankees Stadium. The plastic seats were filled and the Yankees fans took to booing and cussing at the Boston Red Sox. Ah, the familiar feeling of rivalry. I didn't have good seats at the Yankee stadium because my dead father hadn't left me seats to a rival team. That night, I had to cough up half my wallet for seats behind the Sox dugout where I was would watch the game.

I saw the Costco man. He was conversing lightly with Pedroia and Youkilis, saying something that I couldn't quite hear over the vendors selling churros and corn dogs. He split from the conversation rather abruptly though, vanishing into the visitors' club house. He brushed by Beckett and Lester rather rudely and the two scowled a familiar scowl and readjusted their matching hemp necklaces rather arrogantly. That's the last I saw of him that night, up until the seventh inning.

The Yankees stadium was packed with Yankees fans. The stands full of blue and white, contrary to the red and blue and white I was used to seeing at Fenway. It was the opener to the three game series and Boston fans were still stuck at work until the weekend tomorrow. The game began and the Red Sox players were introduced, receiving an endless howl of 'boos' from the stands.

I saw him again during the seventh inning. I eyed him through binoculars I had brought to the game. He was standing of the edge of the bleacher section in left-field, his suit gone and his baseball cap on backwards; he looked like a stranger to me now. He looked right at me, and then pointed to the exit sign. I tilted my head confused. He shook his head, never mind, and I returned my attention back to the game.

Late in the seventh inning, the Yankees were catching up on the lead that Youkilis had provided them in the fourth. I heard someone from the far left shout, "He's gotta bomb! He's a terrorist! He'll blow us all up!" Suddenly all the park went quite, everybody listening to the ladies hysterics. People in the stands began to panic, looking at one another and wishing they had paid attention to the emergency procedures that were given before the national anthem was sung.
People were swarming everywhere, mobs formed in front of the neon green exit signs, the players on the field had returned to their club houses for safety and security guards had engulfed the place. I sat there in a daze. I thought about who would set a bomb on the place, and thought, must be someone truly insane.

There I was, sitting there sipping my diet coke and knawing into a pretzel. "Hey, lady, get your ass in the clubhouse!" I realized the voice had come from the Costco man, his cap on the right direction and his suit on again. I listened, leaving my food on the seat and following him into the visitor's club house.
The club house was crowded, the players all seated on the benches and leaning against lockers teasing each other, but also seriously discussing the scenario. I waited for something to happen, I waited to hear a loud boom, for the glass on the windows the shatter and to hear the girlish screams of all the players who seemed to be taking this very, very lightly. The Costco man smiled at me, his teeth were crooked and a few were missing. He noticed me staring and went to the corner, then he returned with a pair shiny white new dentures.
Suddenly, the clubhouse fell silent. The players had stopped talking and the managers had stopped discussing. Security stood at the doorway, a pair of handcuffs ready, and the failed device in their hands.
"We have surveillance footage of you planting this." One burly man said to the Costco man. The Costco man did not deny it. The security guard preceded to hand cuff the Costco man while muttering his rights to him.
"I would have them. All of them damn Yankees woulda killed them all, gone in a second, to another planet, another galaxy, another universe!" I could see that an awkward silence had gathered over the clubhouse. I could see some of the players pride expand just a little, knowing someone was crazy enough to build a device to send Yankees fans to another universe for them.

--

That was time I saw him, other than on the news. It turned out he was a crazy after all. He just wasn't the type of crazy I had expected; not the kind who "stole" free samples from Costco, but the kind who tried to send Yankees fans to other planets and galaxies.


People are who you think they are.
It's the twisted truth behind the lie behind the truth.