Yellow Mama Archives II

Zvi E. Sesling

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Bat Boy

 

Zvi A. Sesling

 

          Back in the 1950s Dickie McGregor was the Washington Senators’ centerfielder and his best friend was Walter (Stem) Stemcarzyk. The two were inseparable after the baseball games and usually could be found in the same bar downing beers or maybe the hotel lounge where the team was staying sipping martinis.

          Stem, a bachelor would often pick up a couple of women and he and Dickie would then have some entertainment for the night.  One evening Stem told Dickie he had a ticket to the rodeo but could not go because he had a date, so gave his ticket to his friend.

          Dickie went to rodeo held in Virginia, about forty minutes from Washington. After a while he got bored watching men in cowboy outfits ride bulls or horses and get thrown to the ground.  He found his car in the parking lot and began driving. Though the traffic was as usual in the Washington area it took him a bit more than an hour to get back to his suburban home. There he saw a car parked in front of his house.  Dickie turned off the motor, reached into the back seat for his baseball bat, and left the car quietly closing the driver side door and tiptoeing into his home. There he found his wife with Stem on the couch, her blouse off, his pants down to his knees.

          “Some date, you rat,” Dickie blurted. Dickie’s wife sat up, put her blouse back on and Stem pulled up his pants. 

          “It ain’t what it seems Dickie boy, it ain’t what it seems.”

          “Yeah, so what is it?”

          Dickie’s wife ran out of the room crying and Stem tried to think of what to say.

          “Look, I … we ….” That was as far as Stem got as Dickie brought up the bat from behind his back and with a swing that had hit twenty home runs struck Stem squarely in the temple. 

          Three days later the Senators game was postponed so a funeral could be held. The whole team attended, including Dickie McGregor, who gave the eulogy.

 


Carmelita

 

by Zvi A. Sesling

 

 

          The Mexican chick, Carmelita, I’ve been visiting in Tijuana for months wants to know why I am divorced, so I tell her. The first wife fucked half the Seventh Fleet in San Diego. They literally came and went. In and out, so to speak. The second wife chose the Marines at Camp Pendleton while I was at work so she could buy the clothes she took off for those leatherheads.

 

          My guess is this Mexican gal, Carmelita, probably used to earn her pesos on the streets of Tijuana. I really don’t care because like the past times I’ve been in Tijuana, she is going to let me get laid tonight, bless her brown thighs. But then, unlike the past times, she shows a picture of her late husband, a fat, smiling Mexi wearing a sombrero and a smile that reveals two missing teeth up front and a belly that’s downed too many Cervesas. She says his name was Poncho, but it sounds like Pauncho to match the picture.

 

          Then she says the drug cartel filled him with a hundred pieces of lead because two and a half million dollars in some drug deal is missing, and now they are looking for her because Poncho gave her half a million to get away to San Diego and set up a place for them with different names. He never made it, so she had to scoot out of Tijuana to San Diego late at night in the trunk of my car.

 

          So here we are at Papa Pedro’s Bar & Grille in La Jolla pretending we just met when I see a couple of goons at the end of the bar.

 

          “Lady,” I say pretty loud, “just remembered I gotta be at work early.”  And before she can say Oh senor, I’m gone, out the door of the bar on a side street off Girard in La Jolla and in my Chevy. I make for home.

 

          I had a rented room on Poole Street, and as I drive up the hill to my pad, I notice a car following me, so I pass my street and drive up to the main drag and over to Torrey Pines Drive and down the winding road back to Girard, the car tailing me all the way. I then take rights and lefts, but the sedan behind me hangs in there.  

 

Finally, I stop at the police station and the sedan takes off. I notice it’s black and has California plates. As soon as it’s out of sight, I make a U-turn and head home. No car follows.      

 

The next morning, as Carmelita and I had planned, I hoof it down to the airport, and get a flight to New York.

 

          Carmelita, who’s been my lover for the past year since Poncho’s demise hangs in San Diego, a few days while avoiding the goons. Then she catches a flight to Dallas, spends a couple days there and then off to Chicago. From there she’ll fly to Atlanta before finally coming to New York where, with new names and low visibility, we’ll live happily ever after with the money she converted to a bank check and slipped to me while showing me her late husband’s picture.



Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published numerous poems and flash/micro fiction and won international prizes. A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he has published four volumes and three chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind the Gate. He lives in Brookline, MA. with his wife Susan J. Dechter.

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