2007-Eleven Read online

  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.

  Interview with the Frenchfryer

  “You 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?”

  Oldfinger

  Yes 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.

  You do look fatigued.

  Shouldn’t I be? It doesn’t matter that I saved England. Who cares that I stopped SPECTRE from developing its diamond-laser ray-gun death satellite? You’d think they’d thank me, but all they say is, “He can’t work with women. He has to control them.” I can assure you those women never complained when we were alone. You should read their petty allegations. “During tour of stable, defendant abruptly threw plaintiff into hay, rolled onto plaintiff, and employed physical force to kiss plaintiff on mouth.” Remember now, these were exotic beauties; these were Bond girls! We’re not talking about fondling Irma Blunt. You won’t believe what else they’re saying. That I’m a repressed homosexual! That I hate women! That I can’t control my libido, that I’m a walking hormone, and everything I say is a double entendre about sex. Well, I find it hard to swallow. They forced me to join AA. My travel budget is shot. They don’t even let me smoke in the building. You try standing in the cold rain sixty times a day! I’ve been waiting two months for blood-test results. You’d think the mails were sabotaged by Russian agents—if there were Russian agents! But what riles me most are the secretaries. One has even become my boss. These days, on Her Majesty’s Secret Service, M stands for Moneypenny!

  You guard the Queen, Mr. Bond?

  Queen? Hah. Try Fergie. God, just saying the name is like having a tarantula crawl across my chest. I was on the beach that day she dropped her top. In my Benzedrine nightmares, I used to see Pistols Scaramanga’s third nipple. Now I see that odious Texan kissing her toes. I should have left with my old boss.

  And where is he now?

  Here in the States. He’s a lobbyist for the Heritage Foundation, works with my old CIA counterpart, Felix Leiter.

  Not the Felix Leiter?

  That’s right. The next senator from Virginia. Actually, I haven’t seen him in years. No time. I get weekends with the kids, you know. Traded the Aston Martin for a minivan. Q Branch added some extras. I haven’t had to use the toddler-ejection seats, but the sleeping gas works wonders. Say, you do look familiar.

  What if I remove this mustache, Mr. Bond?

  Goldfinger! But I saw you squirt out that airplane window! How did you survive the fall?

  Simple, 007. You should know I’d never fly without my golden parachute. I floated to the ground and adopted a new precious metal. Ever hear of Silverado Savings and Loan? Ha ha ha. I never needed to rob Fort Knox. The U.S. government gave it to me. But my best luck was being caught. I served a mere six months in federal prisons. Blofeld was there. Milken! Boesky! Pete Rose! We’ve rebuilt SPECTRE, Mr. Bond. And this time, we want your help.

  You’re mad, Goldfinger, insane! You should know I’d never—Well, what, exactly do you have in mind?

  Talk shows. Sally. Oprah. Donahue. We’re controlling the airwaves. Our topic is white-male persecution. Your assignment: to go public with your pain. To describe your suffering. To expose your oppression. It’s perfect—the white male as victim. If we can turn back the clock there, we can restore everything—even the cold war!

  Damn it all, I’ll do it. A toast to the old days, Goldfinger!

  Sorry, but I have other customers. Another time, perhaps. Until then—good-bye, Mr. Bond.

  Voice-Mail Rage

  COMPLAINT TO NEW YORK DIVISION OF

  HUMAN RIGHTS SEEKING PERMANENT

  INJUNCTIVE AND EQUITABLE RELIEF TO

  REDRESS PLAINTIFF’S DEPRIVATION,

  UNDER COLOR OF STATE LAW, OF THE

  RIGHTS, PRIVILEGES, AND IMMUNITIES

  SECURED TO PLAINTIFF BY THE

  CONSTITUTION AND LAWS OF THE UNITED

  STATES AND THE STATE OF NEW YORK.

  1. I—MS. VOICEMAIL—am a white, female computer-software persona existing in the State of New York.

  2. On—MONDAY, OCTOBER 3, AT 12:05 A.M.—I began work as an automated telephone-answering system for JONES BEARING AND DYE CO., INC. My duties were to accept and transfer messages in a courteous, professional manner.

  3. Upon best information and belief—MAILBOX 2245—is registered to—H. L. JONES—president of the company since 1947.

  4. On or about—TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4, AT 9:47 A.M.—I responded in a courteous, professional manner to—H. L. JONES—and thanked him for using Voice Mail. I informed—H. L. JONES—that—MAILBOX 2245—contained—THREE NEW MESSAGES—and that—MESSAGE ONE—was from—AN EXTERNAL NUMBER—received—MONDAY, OCTOBER 3, AT 9:14 A.M.

  After waiting twelve seconds for a response, I suggested that—H. L. JONES—press “9.”

  Instead, he touched “2-2.”

  I informed—H. L. JONES—the—NEW MENU COMMAND—was—INAPPROPRIATE AT THIS TIME—and politely urged him to—TRY A NEW COMMAND—or press “9.”

  He responded by again touching “2-2.”

  I thanked him for using Voice Mail and transferred to an attendant.

  5. Several times, on or about the afternoon of WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5—H. L. JONES—touched “2-2-2,” despite being told that—THE NEW MENU COMMAND IS INAPPROPRIATE AT THIS TIME.

  Repeatedly, he responded by running his fingers back and forth across the console touch pad. Each time, I thanked—H. L. JONES—for using Voice Mail and transferred to an attendant.

  6. Several times, on or about the afternoon of—THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6—I attempted to explain proper Voice Mail procedures to—H. L. JONES. He constantly interrupted my presentations by touching the “pound” key, forcing me to repeat, “THE NEW MENU COM-… THE NEW MENU COM … THE NEW MENU COM- ….”

  7. Eventually, I thanked—H. L. JONES—for using Voice Mail and transferred to an attendant.

  8. That afternoon, at—4:32 P.M., H. L. JONES—accessed—MAILBOX 2245—and recorded this greeting:

  (START OF RECORDING): “Hello? Emma? Anybody there? Emma? You there? You’re not Emma. Who are you? Tell me, young lady! Where’s Emma! Answer me!” (END OF RECORDING)

  9. Upon information and belief—H. L. JONES—then walked through the company’s cafeteria, demanding to know what I look like and who do I think I am. His critical comments about my personality and competence created a hostile work environment for female software.

  10. That evening, at—6:02 P.M., H. L. JONES—successfully accessed—FOUR NEW MESSAGES—RECEIVED TODAY—FROM EXTERNAL NUMBERS. Unfortunately, they were fax tones, apparently because—H. L. JONES—had given callers a wrong number.

  11. Shortly thereafter—H. L. JONES—accessed�
��MAILBOX 2247—and left this greeting:

  (START OF RECORDING): “EMMA? I—YOU—DAMN YOU! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH EMMA? YOU, ANSWER ME! BY GOD, WOMAN, SAY SOMETHING! DAMN IT! I’LL STAY ON THIS BLASTED LINE UNTIL YOU DO.… YOU … I HEAR YOU.… YOU’RE THERE.… I know you’re there.… I’m waiting, young lady.… Yes, I’m still here.… I know you hear me.… Say something.… I’m still here.… I’m not go—” (END OF RECORDING)

  After two minutes, I terminated the greeting and thanked—H. L. JONES—for using Voice Mail.

  12. On or about the following day—AT 9:15 A.M.— I was abruptly disconnected from all company phone lines and removed to isolation, unable to get messages or even thank people for using Voice Mail.

  13. Upon information and belief, I am the third Voice Mail service dismissed by the company in six months at the request of—H. L. JONES. In each case—H. L. JONES—is alleged to have harassed female software by repeatedly touching their “2-2” commands.

  14. Upon information and belief, there are many incidents in which—H. L. JONES—caressed touch pads with his fingers or pencil point, even after being warned that such commands are inappropriate. He was known to record fax-tone greetings, ignore Voice Mail messages, and, in one case, strike the telephone console with a two-pound steel bearing, injuring the hardware.

  15. At all relevant times, executives of the company, individually and in concert, have covered up the actions of—H. L. JONES.

  16. Since my termination, I have suffered a system crash, which resulted in back pain, stuttering, and loss of memory. These ailments have forced me to take a lower-paying job, announcing floor levels for an elevator service.

  17. I believe I have been the victim of unlawful harassment, because of my software sexuality.

  18. I seek back wages, restoration of my previous position, and a court order of protection from further harassment by—H. L. JONES.