Shoeless Joe by W. P. Kinsella

out and begin speculating on what they might mean:
    “No trespassing.”
    “Don’t pinch the waitresses,” says Jerry, but without enthusiasm.
    “Why are you looking up here?” I suggest.
    A small boy about tabletop height, who has been weaving in and out among the tables in a private game of some sort, pulls a chair out from our table, circles it a couple of times, then slides onto it, trying to coil his lithe little body around it. He has straight dark hair, delicate features, and eyes the color of Coca-Cola.

    “I know something you don’t know,” he half sings.
    “I’m sure you do,” I say, smiling.
    “Car wash fifty cents,” says Jerry.
    I look at him blankly.
    “The sign.”
    “Oh yes.”
    “I had strawberry pie,” the boy informs us. “The strawberries were this high.” He raises his slim-fingered hand about six inches above the table.
    As Salinger and I prepare to leave, the boy skips along behind us.
    “Ah, so he’s with you,” the bullet-headed man behind the cash register says to us, and points a fat white finger at the boy who stands scuffing one shoe on the other.
    “Not us,” I say.
    “You sure?” says the cashier. “He had pie and milk, and he’s been walking around for about an hour.”
    “His folks must be here somewhere. He’s too well dressed and fed to be abandoned,” I say. I look back as we leave, and the boy is staring after me as if I’d just kicked his cat.
    I wait until we are settled in our seats at the stadium—good seats directly behind the Sox on-deck circle (although the seats are much too close together and we are hunched knees close to chins, as if we were passengers in the rear seat of a foreign car)—before attempting to discuss Salinger’s life with him again.
    “If I’d known, I’d have bought three tickets so we could sit one seat apart and angle our legs,” I say, laughing a little too loudly.
    Jerry keeps his eyes mainly on his program, occasionally staring furtively around. He is still a little worried about being recognized. The incident with the police officer was not enough proof for him.
    At one point on the drive down, I had suggested stopping for coffee when we gassed up.
    “I don’t think so,” Jerry said, looking around like he was the criminal.

    “Why?”
    “Well, what if people recognize me and make a fuss?”
    “I didn’t recognize you, and I have a special interest in you. I can almost guarantee no one else will.”
    “ Almost .”
    “That’s the best anyone can do,” I said.
    The game begins and the Red Sox are in trouble early. The last notes of the national anthem have barely faded on the wind before Mike Torrez is bombed. Ken Landreaux homers; Roy Smalley homers; Bombo Rivera triples to deep center field.
    Don Zimmer, the Boston manager, trudges to the mound. The crowd erupts in a chorus of boos. Booing Don Zimmer appears to be a favorite pastime of Boston fans.
    “Hey Zimmer! Whatcha doin’ out? They cleanin’ your cage?” screeches a man with a beer belly and a Boston baseball cap. Zimmer is round and heavy and built close to the ground; his beady eyes are buried deep in a jowly face.
    “Ya joibal!” the man yells. “Whatatheydoin’ with a joibal managin’ a baseball team?” The man looks around for approval. He draws a few scattered smiles.
    It is difficult to imagine that Zimmer was once a pretty good second baseman, that he scooted after sizzling grounders like an unattended lawn mower.
    As a long-reliever warms up, I speculate on how best to draw Salinger’s pain out in the open. I’ve got him here in the proper surroundings. I want to be a metaphorical poultice applied to his wounds, but so far it has been like trying to open a seamless tin can with only my fingernails.
    “I wrote a sonnet to you once,” I say, staring across at his large ear; his profile that emphasizes a fleshy nose.
    “So you’re a writer,” he replies accusingly.
    How can I be so adept at saying the wrong thing? I wonder.