kelso's swing, chapter 2
BY DELL FRANKLIN
A little before noon, Kelso rode his old 10 speed north along the strand in Manhattan Beach just as morning fog lifted and a hazy sun filtered through. He wore his usual thrift store shorts, T shirt and flip-flops. He approached a 1930s era circular complex of six studios—Pioneer Arms—and pulled in. Out front of most of these cozy little apartments were upright surf boards, Weber bar b cues, old rusted bikes, deck chairs and chaises. Towels and wet suits hung from open windows. In the case of Marstrulavich, who Kelso was visiting, there were two healthy potted cacti plants and his rusty, fat-tired strand cruiser with basket at the handlebars to hold grocery supplies from the local market, since Marstrulavich, like Kelso, owned no car.
He was seven blocks south of the Sunset and Tampico Tides and eight blocks north of Kelso’s studio.
He lounged in one of two canvas chairs he’d found in the alley with a free sign, pouring over the LA Times, a coffee mug, pack of non-filter Pall Malls and a Zippo lighter beside him, along with a notebook having to do with his occupation—a bookie who took bets on his first ever phone. In only cutoffs, with his ragged beard and long straggly hair, he resembled an eastern European version of Buffalo Bill, though regulars of the Tides and Sunset often referred to him as “Rasputin.”
Kelso lodged his bike against Marstrulavich’s apartment and plunked down in the chair beside him, settled in. Marstrulavich put down his paper. “It can’t be true,’ he told Kelso. “You’re not really taking on that ragtag softball team from the Tides.
Kelso leaned back, adjusting his shades, enjoying the sun. “I am. And I’m depending on you, the most sedentary and uninvolved slacker on the beach, where sedentary and uninvolved reigns, to be my assistant coach.”
Marstrulavich, a smaller, leaner man than the muscular Kelso, sighed and slumped, reached down for a Pall Mall and lit it with his beloved Zippo from his army days in Viet Nam—a good-luck charm. He blew out smoke. “How could you do this?” he asked. “Those poor girls, they’re hopeless spastics.”
Kelso turned to face his friend. “Look, all I want you to do is help me conduct practices. You won’t have to do much, or teach anything, cuz you don’t know anything. You can console ‘em when I berate ‘em. You get to be the good guy. You might even get laid.”
Marstrulavich flicked some ashes into a coffee can of sand. “That why you took on those girls—to wet your weenie? Cuz you’re lonely cuz Stella gave you the boot for all the right reasons?”
Kelso sighed, switched around. “We’re not talking about my tragic love life, Stroolo. Not that yours is any better. We’re talking about a softball team I agreed to coach.”
“But why? You don’t need this.”
“I don’t know why,” Kelso conceded, sitting back. “I was unprepared for somebody as intrepid as Jill Norton.”
“Jill Norton? She’s a fucking four star general.” Marstrulavich sipped his coffee, shook his head. “You--a coach? That in itself is a joke. A guy who was uncoachable all his life, a guy who led his team mates astray off the field, a coach’s nightmare, is now gonna be a leader of women?” He burst out in derisive laughter.
“Look, I’m giving you a chance to get off your ass and get involved—to do good. You get to hit infield, coach first base. People will see you, an active person doing his part for the good of something, and take you for a real person, not a drain on the system, not a wastrel squandering a fucking masters degree in botany…a total disappointment to anybody who ever had any hope for you.”
“Don’t try and push me or shame me, Kelso, it won’t work. You’re asking me to cut into a regimen I’ve worked very hard to establish, so I can live my life with as little stress as possible. I don’t like that being threatened…I like my life just exactly as it is now…”
Kelso turned to glare at his friend. He suddenly rose, hovered over him. “You owe me!” He pointed a finger at him. “You show up on my doorstep with a pillow full of worldly possessions after getting drunk with a bar hag in a rented motel room and fall asleep with a cigarette and practically burn the place down. You have no money. You sleep on MY floor for months. I get you a shift at the Tides, then another shift. I introduce you to a guy who gets you your apartment. I introduce you to Flanagan, who gets you in the fucking syndicate, so all you gotta do now is answer the phone and take your cash money…I’m responsible for you’re your survival, your station in life…without me, you would have perished, knowing how unmotivated you are, so goddammit, you are going to do this little thing for me as payment, as a favor, as my best friend, period!”
Kelso sat down. Marstrulavich dropped his cigarette into the coffee can, rose, entered his apartment, came out with two ice cold bottles of Bud, handed one to Kelso, who took a swig. Marstrulavich took a swig.
“Look,” Kelso said. “You won’t even have to give those broad signs. I’ll do that.”
“Signs? Those broads don’t know how many outs are in an inning, much less signs.”
Kelso grinned at his friend, offered his bottle for a tap, and Marstrulavich grudgingly tapped it. “Christ,” he muttered, taking another huge swig. “Who wants to be your best friend? Shit.”
A little before noon, Kelso rode his old 10 speed north along the strand in Manhattan Beach just as morning fog lifted and a hazy sun filtered through. He wore his usual thrift store shorts, T shirt and flip-flops. He approached a 1930s era circular complex of six studios—Pioneer Arms—and pulled in. Out front of most of these cozy little apartments were upright surf boards, Weber bar b cues, old rusted bikes, deck chairs and chaises. Towels and wet suits hung from open windows. In the case of Marstrulavich, who Kelso was visiting, there were two healthy potted cacti plants and his rusty, fat-tired strand cruiser with basket at the handlebars to hold grocery supplies from the local market, since Marstrulavich, like Kelso, owned no car.
He was seven blocks south of the Sunset and Tampico Tides and eight blocks north of Kelso’s studio.
He lounged in one of two canvas chairs he’d found in the alley with a free sign, pouring over the LA Times, a coffee mug, pack of non-filter Pall Malls and a Zippo lighter beside him, along with a notebook having to do with his occupation—a bookie who took bets on his first ever phone. In only cutoffs, with his ragged beard and long straggly hair, he resembled an eastern European version of Buffalo Bill, though regulars of the Tides and Sunset often referred to him as “Rasputin.”
Kelso lodged his bike against Marstrulavich’s apartment and plunked down in the chair beside him, settled in. Marstrulavich put down his paper. “It can’t be true,’ he told Kelso. “You’re not really taking on that ragtag softball team from the Tides.
Kelso leaned back, adjusting his shades, enjoying the sun. “I am. And I’m depending on you, the most sedentary and uninvolved slacker on the beach, where sedentary and uninvolved reigns, to be my assistant coach.”
Marstrulavich, a smaller, leaner man than the muscular Kelso, sighed and slumped, reached down for a Pall Mall and lit it with his beloved Zippo from his army days in Viet Nam—a good-luck charm. He blew out smoke. “How could you do this?” he asked. “Those poor girls, they’re hopeless spastics.”
Kelso turned to face his friend. “Look, all I want you to do is help me conduct practices. You won’t have to do much, or teach anything, cuz you don’t know anything. You can console ‘em when I berate ‘em. You get to be the good guy. You might even get laid.”
Marstrulavich flicked some ashes into a coffee can of sand. “That why you took on those girls—to wet your weenie? Cuz you’re lonely cuz Stella gave you the boot for all the right reasons?”
Kelso sighed, switched around. “We’re not talking about my tragic love life, Stroolo. Not that yours is any better. We’re talking about a softball team I agreed to coach.”
“But why? You don’t need this.”
“I don’t know why,” Kelso conceded, sitting back. “I was unprepared for somebody as intrepid as Jill Norton.”
“Jill Norton? She’s a fucking four star general.” Marstrulavich sipped his coffee, shook his head. “You--a coach? That in itself is a joke. A guy who was uncoachable all his life, a guy who led his team mates astray off the field, a coach’s nightmare, is now gonna be a leader of women?” He burst out in derisive laughter.
“Look, I’m giving you a chance to get off your ass and get involved—to do good. You get to hit infield, coach first base. People will see you, an active person doing his part for the good of something, and take you for a real person, not a drain on the system, not a wastrel squandering a fucking masters degree in botany…a total disappointment to anybody who ever had any hope for you.”
“Don’t try and push me or shame me, Kelso, it won’t work. You’re asking me to cut into a regimen I’ve worked very hard to establish, so I can live my life with as little stress as possible. I don’t like that being threatened…I like my life just exactly as it is now…”
Kelso turned to glare at his friend. He suddenly rose, hovered over him. “You owe me!” He pointed a finger at him. “You show up on my doorstep with a pillow full of worldly possessions after getting drunk with a bar hag in a rented motel room and fall asleep with a cigarette and practically burn the place down. You have no money. You sleep on MY floor for months. I get you a shift at the Tides, then another shift. I introduce you to a guy who gets you your apartment. I introduce you to Flanagan, who gets you in the fucking syndicate, so all you gotta do now is answer the phone and take your cash money…I’m responsible for you’re your survival, your station in life…without me, you would have perished, knowing how unmotivated you are, so goddammit, you are going to do this little thing for me as payment, as a favor, as my best friend, period!”
Kelso sat down. Marstrulavich dropped his cigarette into the coffee can, rose, entered his apartment, came out with two ice cold bottles of Bud, handed one to Kelso, who took a swig. Marstrulavich took a swig.
“Look,” Kelso said. “You won’t even have to give those broad signs. I’ll do that.”
“Signs? Those broads don’t know how many outs are in an inning, much less signs.”
Kelso grinned at his friend, offered his bottle for a tap, and Marstrulavich grudgingly tapped it. “Christ,” he muttered, taking another huge swig. “Who wants to be your best friend? Shit.”
