The Flex of the Thumb

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The Flex of the Thumb

James W. Bennett

This book is dedicated

to the memory of Chad Lobdell,

an author dying much too young.

Chapter One

Looking back, it was clear how there were foreshadowing vibes even before there was ever a telling blow to the head. They weren't the deep, chambered, transforming kind, nor were they long in duration, but they were there all the same. Nothing comes from nothing, in other words, certainly not the ever-widening circle of particular waves which serves to define the nature of the cosmos. What confluence of forces it was that framed a window on the universe along the inscape of Vano's psyche? Who can say about these things?

But Vano had vibes, for instance, the day of the senior class field trip to the Magic Mountain amusement park near Santa Clarita. A girl fell to her death from the Sky Chute. A few nearby onlookers were demonstrably shocked and traumatized, but park activities went right ahead with business as usual. Nothing missed a beat, or so it seemed to Vano. He felt resonant vibes from outside and from within, timbreing up from some deep and private, cthonic place. The sky seemed to shimmer with an orange hue.

Vano recovered within a few moments, and was able to go about his business. That business included swilling down as much of Treece's smuggled beer as possible, and finding a private place in the picnic grove for planking Ann-Marie Pillsbury, who had been hanging on him all day.

There was also the time when Vano stood on the mound of the San Bernardino High School baseball field toeing the rubber. In the beginning, it was only a low ringing in his ears. And not precisely a ringing either, but more of a resonance like a tuning fork struck in a very low register, crescendoing before slowly dissipating. He turned away from his catcher long enough to stare up at the puffy California clouds floating slowly across their blue sky backdrop.

As always, the crowd assembled to watch Vano pitch was overflow. The permanent bleachers were full, as well as a section of temporary seats. Two thousand people or so, standing, lined both foul lines and even filled in behind the outfield fence. The best seats, those directly behind home plate, were occupied by major league scouts who cradled their speed guns and charted Vano's pitches.

Felix Gomez, the Apple Valley catcher, approached the mound. “What's the matter, Man? One more batter, okay?” As he spoke, he adjusted the sponges he used to reinforce his catcher's mitt whenever Vano pitched.

“It's the ringing,” Vano told him.

“Not the ringing, Man. Just one more batter.”

“Don't worry, it's over now.”

The relieved Gomez said, “Good. We've got a two-hour bus ride when the game is over. After that, I've got a date with Becky. I think I might get to hide the weinie, okay?”

“You wish,” said Vano, shaking his head. “It was just an episode; I'm okay now.” He glanced at the final out, an undersized freshman with lots of pimples by the name of Scottie Wiggins, sent up to bat against his will. “Let's just get the goddam game over with. I think I'll throw this little shit a couple sliders.”

“Oh Jesus Christ, what the hell for?”

Vano was grinning with a malevolent gleam in his eye. “Maybe we can get him to load his pants; whatta you think?”

“I told you what I think. Let's just get the game over. You've struck out every batter with the fast ball, we don't need to goof on this kid.”

“Not every batter. One guy grounded out to first.”

“You knocked the bat out of his hands,” Gomez reminded Vano. “What can I say?”

By this time the home plate umpire was at the mound and out of patience. “What's the problem, boys?”

Gomez turned to the ump. “He wants to throw his fuckin' slider.”

“You watch your mouth with me,” said the umpire, whose name was Culpepper.

“He wants to throw his freakin' slider.”

“That's better. So what's the problem?”

“I can't catch his slider,” explained Gomez. “He throws it 98 miles an hour and it's got about a 15-inch bite. I can't catch it even if it's in the strike zone.”

Briefly, Culpepper tried to imagine what a 98-mile-an-hour pitch could do to various parts of his anatomy if the catcher missed the ball. He said to Vano, “No sliders, kid. Now can we get on with it?”

It didn't occur to Vano that by dictating pitches, the umpire was exceeding his authority. He said, “Okay, what the hell; let's get the goddam game over with.”

Gomez pulled down his mask as he crouched low behind home plate. He gave Vano the sign, just the index finger, but wondered for the umpteenth time why he bothered giving signs at all.
Was it a requirement
? The umpire got down low behind him. The batter, Scottie Wiggins, stood as far from the plate as the rules allowed, and then some. With his eyes tightly closed, he rested the bat on his right shoulder.

Vano went into his wind-up.

The pitch was a blur with a 15-inch tail that exploded up and in over the inside corner. Into Gomez' mitt like a rifle shot.

Umpire Culpepper called strike one. “How do you catch that thing?” he asked Gomez.

“I don't really catch it, he just hits the mitt. It's sort of like catchin' a foul tip. Mostly luck.”

“Jesus Christ.”

In the bleachers behind the screen, Vano's father, Vernon, made a quick survey of the speed guns in his vicinity. They did not all register exactly the same. Some of them tracked the pitch at 112 miles per hour, while others had readings as high as 115. Vernon Lucas smiled. He dreamed of stocks and bonds, real estate holdings, and maybe even a modest island in the Carribean.

Vano threw two more fast balls, same location, same velocity. The ump punched out the relieved Scottie Wiggins, who trailed his bat toward the dugout. The tell-tale moisture which darkened the inseams of his uniform trousers didn't matter; he would live to tell about this day.

Lying in the grass and chewing clover stems, the outfielders had to be told by the shortstop that the game was over. Vano left the mound and started shaking hands amidst a throng of well-wishers and back-slappers. It was another perfect game. He had faced the minimum, 21 batters, striking out 20. He never did get to throw his slider.

In the parking lot, Ann-Marie honked and waved from behind the wheel of her yellow Geo convertible. Vano said to Gomez, “We'll ride back with Ann-Marie. Go get Becky.”

“If we don't ride the bus we're breakin' team rules.”

“Tell me.”

“We could get suspended,” Gomez reminded him. “We could even get kicked off.”

Vano's reply was a scornful one: “They're going to kick me off the team? Listen to it, Gomez.”

“Okay, but what about me?”

“They're gonna kick my catcher off? I don't think so. Go get Becky. Or, you can wuss out and ride the bus. It's no skin off my ass one way or the other.”

Gomez rode in the back seat with Becky. Vano slid behind the wheel. “Move over,” he said to Ann-Marie. Vano decided to drive roundabout by way of Grass Valley Road, along the rugged terrain which surrounded Miller Canyon. It was the long way north to be sure, but nobody seemed to notice. Ann-Marie was too busy explaining the financial aid package offered her by the Victorville Beauty Academy, while Gomez was locked onto his back seat schmoozing with Becky.

Somewhere between Twin Peaks and the merger with highway 173, Vano pulled off the snaking road at a deserted sidebar. “Why are we stopping?” Ann-Marie asked him.

“Just follow me, everything's cool.” Taking her by the hand, he led her around a large boulder configuration in the direction of a clearing in amongst some dense chapparal. When they were alone, he began untying the strings which secured her pink halter top.

She offered some resistance, at first. “What are you doing, Vano?”

“Duh. Let's try twenty questions.”

“But I was trying to tell you about my financial aid package. Aren't you interested?”

“Is that what it was?”

“But don't you want to hear about it?”

“Ann-Marie, it's time to cut to the chase. What do you think this is about?”

Her breasts loosed in the high desert breeze, Ann-Marie folded her arms across her chest.
Wasn't it demeaning to be treated this way? Wasn't Vano Lucas an arrogant bastard to assume that she was his for the taking
?

“What about Gomez and Becky?”

“They'll take care of themselves,” Vano assured her. By this time, he was unzipping his fly. “Take your shorts off, Ann-Marie; it's time to get it on.”

Ann-Marie had second thoughts about her second thoughts. If she wasn't certain what the self-esteem factor in this equation was, there was one thing she did understand: life as the wife of Vano Lucas, soon to become a multimillionaire, would be immensely preferable to life as a checker at the Red Fox supermarket, her current position, or as a hairstylist/manicurist, which was her likely future position.

With tears forming in her eyes, she nevertheless began removing her pink shorts.

In the kitchen of the spacious Lucas condominium, the southern exposure opened on a vast and scenic mountain overlook. While Sister Cecilia, the housekeeper, prepared Vano's breakfast of sausage, eggs, waffles, and toast, she sorted the mail. It was already mid-morning. She asked Vano if he had any plans for the day.

“SSDD,” was Vano's answer.

“What do you mean by that, Vano?”

“Same shit, different day.”

“Please don't use blasphemy,” said Sister Cecilia, who was saved and sanctified.

Vano ignored the rebuke. For all he cared,
blasphemy
was some kind of off-speed breaking ball or circle change.