eventually he flicks channels: He doesn’t want to see the wolf die.
He settles on a baseball game and watches for a full twenty minutes before realizing that it’s the World Series, the Yankees against the Atlanta Braves. He has no real interest in who wins or loses, and he knows almost none of the players’ names. But he somehow manages to get absorbed in the rhythm of the thing: three strikes per batter, three outs per side. It’s not like football or basketball or hockey, where everyone’s in a big rush against the clock. In baseball, you get your three strikes, you get your three outs, you get your nine innings; you can take as long as you need to do it.
After each half inning, there are commercials for cars and beer. Goodman particularly likes one that shows three frogs who learn to say “Budweiser.” He eats his second burrito; it’s cold, but he enjoys it anyway.
Sometime around ten, he falls asleep.
Raul Cuervas pushes his foot down harder on the gas pedal, watches the needle on the speedometer climb to eighty, eighty-three, eighty-five. He looks at the digital clock on the dashboard: 10:49. He knows the Avis counter at the airport shuts down at eleven. He knows he’s still fifteen miles away. He knows he’s not going to make it.
He knows he’s seriously fucked up.
He was supposed to pick up the car yesterday afternoon. But the night before, he’d gone drinking with Papo and Julio, matching shots of tequila at Fast Eddie’s. After half a dozen shots, Raul had been feeling no pain. There was this little chiquita kept looking his way, giving him the eye. Finally, he’d gone over to her. They’d talked a while, ended up at a room somewhere.
He swerves to avoid a slow-moving car, fishtails for a moment as he passes it, leaning on his horn. Fuckin’ old maricóns, he thinks, they oughta get ‘em all off the road, give ‘em a big mall to drive around in, like bumper cars.
He tries to remember fucking the chiquita, but he can’t. He can remember her tits, though. Stickin’ out real good, with these hard little nipples. . . .
He notices he’s having trouble keeping his speed up, with even more cars in his way as he gets closer to the airport. He’s doing no better than seventy-five, and it’s already 10:54. Cocksucker!
He recalls waking up alone this afternoon in some strange motel room, his head throbbing, his wallet gone, not even knowing if he’d got laid or not. And the worst of it was that with his wallet gone, so was the license and credit card Mister Fuentes had given him to pick up the car with. Without which, he didn’t even know the fucking name of the guy he was supposed to be.
He comes up fast on a pickup truck with no taillights, seeing it at the last minute, swerving around it with his tires squealing. Another one for the fuckin’ mall. He’s down to sixty-five, sixty. Still five miles away, and already it’s 10:58.
It had taken him all evening to get ahold of Johnnie Delgado and get a duplicate license and credit card. Now he’s gonna get shut down at the counter and have to wait till tomorrow to pick up the car. If the car’s still there, that is. Mister Fuentes is gonna wanta fuckin’ tear Raul a new asshole when he hears about this. If he hasn’t heard already.
Goodman wakes at around eleven, sees the game is over, that it has been replaced by some postgame analysis show. They’re interviewing some player in his underwear.
He flicks the TV off, turns off the light, and rolls over. He’s amazed he was able to fall asleep, what with his back and the air conditioner being so loud. But within five minutes, he’s asleep again.
It’s five after eleven by the time Raul Cuervas pulls into the Fort Lauderdale Airport, almost quarter after by the time he enters the terminal and finds the Avis counter. It’s empty and dark. On the counter is a sign: CLOSED WILL REOPEN 7:00 A.M. WE TRY HARDER.
He’d like to take the sign and throw it through the fucking plate-glass
He settles on a baseball game and watches for a full twenty minutes before realizing that it’s the World Series, the Yankees against the Atlanta Braves. He has no real interest in who wins or loses, and he knows almost none of the players’ names. But he somehow manages to get absorbed in the rhythm of the thing: three strikes per batter, three outs per side. It’s not like football or basketball or hockey, where everyone’s in a big rush against the clock. In baseball, you get your three strikes, you get your three outs, you get your nine innings; you can take as long as you need to do it.
After each half inning, there are commercials for cars and beer. Goodman particularly likes one that shows three frogs who learn to say “Budweiser.” He eats his second burrito; it’s cold, but he enjoys it anyway.
Sometime around ten, he falls asleep.
Raul Cuervas pushes his foot down harder on the gas pedal, watches the needle on the speedometer climb to eighty, eighty-three, eighty-five. He looks at the digital clock on the dashboard: 10:49. He knows the Avis counter at the airport shuts down at eleven. He knows he’s still fifteen miles away. He knows he’s not going to make it.
He knows he’s seriously fucked up.
He was supposed to pick up the car yesterday afternoon. But the night before, he’d gone drinking with Papo and Julio, matching shots of tequila at Fast Eddie’s. After half a dozen shots, Raul had been feeling no pain. There was this little chiquita kept looking his way, giving him the eye. Finally, he’d gone over to her. They’d talked a while, ended up at a room somewhere.
He swerves to avoid a slow-moving car, fishtails for a moment as he passes it, leaning on his horn. Fuckin’ old maricóns, he thinks, they oughta get ‘em all off the road, give ‘em a big mall to drive around in, like bumper cars.
He tries to remember fucking the chiquita, but he can’t. He can remember her tits, though. Stickin’ out real good, with these hard little nipples. . . .
He notices he’s having trouble keeping his speed up, with even more cars in his way as he gets closer to the airport. He’s doing no better than seventy-five, and it’s already 10:54. Cocksucker!
He recalls waking up alone this afternoon in some strange motel room, his head throbbing, his wallet gone, not even knowing if he’d got laid or not. And the worst of it was that with his wallet gone, so was the license and credit card Mister Fuentes had given him to pick up the car with. Without which, he didn’t even know the fucking name of the guy he was supposed to be.
He comes up fast on a pickup truck with no taillights, seeing it at the last minute, swerving around it with his tires squealing. Another one for the fuckin’ mall. He’s down to sixty-five, sixty. Still five miles away, and already it’s 10:58.
It had taken him all evening to get ahold of Johnnie Delgado and get a duplicate license and credit card. Now he’s gonna get shut down at the counter and have to wait till tomorrow to pick up the car. If the car’s still there, that is. Mister Fuentes is gonna wanta fuckin’ tear Raul a new asshole when he hears about this. If he hasn’t heard already.
Goodman wakes at around eleven, sees the game is over, that it has been replaced by some postgame analysis show. They’re interviewing some player in his underwear.
He flicks the TV off, turns off the light, and rolls over. He’s amazed he was able to fall asleep, what with his back and the air conditioner being so loud. But within five minutes, he’s asleep again.
It’s five after eleven by the time Raul Cuervas pulls into the Fort Lauderdale Airport, almost quarter after by the time he enters the terminal and finds the Avis counter. It’s empty and dark. On the counter is a sign: CLOSED WILL REOPEN 7:00 A.M. WE TRY HARDER.
He’d like to take the sign and throw it through the fucking plate-glass
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