Oh Henry, have you got something to tell me?
‘Cause everybody’s been sayin’
You been runnin’ around
Oh Henry, I know you wouldn’t hurt me
Don’t you know that we don’t need
One more grave in this town
***
The Pine Tree Market sits in the middle of town along Chilnualna Road, four aisles of groceries hidden beneath a canopy of pine needles. It is quite literally the only place in town, so you’re stuck with whatever lines its shelves. The essentials are stocked daily – milk, beer and two racks of candy – but if you have a specific recipe in mind you might end up plating a chicken caesar salad on a full bed of parsley. It’s a tiny shop with random groceries at the end of a long distribution line, but it’s been there forever and the locals love it.
The tradition in my family is that the first person who wakes up walks down to grab a Fresno Bee or USA Today (the national equivalent of the Bee). It’s a great tradition when you’re a teenager who sleeps until 11am, but you end up making a lot of early morning walks when you have a 2-year-old who’s adjusted to a different time zone.
Tuesday marked my third morning in a row, and Gene met me at the front door of the market with a cup of coffee and a Twizzler for my daughter. We talked a bit about water levels and the Rim Fire, and he made fun of my Astros hat yet again. Just another early morning in the trees.
I heard a clack-CLACK on the wooden railing outside, followed with a sharp aahk-aahk-aahk. I caught Eleanor as she darted to the front of the store, just in time to see a slender silhouette pop up and down in the window shade.
“Ah, that must be Henry,” Gene said as he checked his watch. He grabbed a pair of tall-boy Keystone Lights on his way to the door and flung it open to greet an old friend.
Henry, while not human, weighed every bit as much as my daughter and seemed to talk more. He hopped on the railing and tossed a pair of pull-tabs in a recycle bin nearby. Gene made some chirping sounds and stood the beers on either side of the beast before turning back in to grab a ringing phone.
At the time, it was the closest I’d ever been to a living raven. I clutched Eleanor out of instinct but stood frozen in place. Henry was huge – nearly twice the size of a chicken – and as beautiful as he was frightening. The damn bird seemed to look me right in the eyes, as if gauging my character in a primal way. Then he hopped up, carefully clutched the beers and took off.
***
Monday, Labor Day, 1pm MMPUS
(Andrew) Albers vs (Paul) Clemens
Tuesday, 7pm MMPUS
TBD vs Cosart
Wednesday, 1pm MMPUS
Hendriks vs Lyles
***
Twizzlers from a package just aren’t the same as the licorice you find in the big glass jars. I never really enjoyed the candy all that much, maybe because the ones from the tub seem stale yet somehow better, but I gripped several of them in my right hand as I rode my father’s shoulders, straight from the Pine Tree Market. We walked a short distance along the highway towards a group of Park Rangers, several of them puffing at cigarettes. They casually hung around a gigantic white septic tank and seemed to be congratulating each other as they awaited further instructions.
As we drew closer, the giant tank shook violently on its trailer and bellowed out in anger. Everybody ducked in fear, including my dad and me atop his frame, and time stood still. The roar trailed off to a whimper, and only the four-year-old in the group had the balls to call back gleefully, “BEAR!!!”
So, not a septic tank: a cage. A big fucking cage with wheels and a single grated air-hole on each side. A Sharpie above the window on the port side named its occupant “Snaggletooth,” and ol’ Snaggle seemed to be pissed right the fuck off.
We smiled at the Rangers as they clumsily flicked their lighters. My father and I share a brain, so he talked his way to the side of the cage and hoisted me up to peek in the window – he knew I wouldn’t leave without a look inside.
Snaggletooth shook as he stood, his thick brown coat moving independently from the massive body that twitched underneath. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed Woolly Mammoth. He wrestled with his restraints and bit at his paws. Then the four-year-old caught his attention.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I cooed as I made the Universal Tickle Hand Signal.
He snorted and looked up. Bloodshot eyes caught mine and he bore his teeth in recognition. He was every bit the bear I knew from my picture books, but like nothing I’ve seen since. The entire left side of his face drooped dramatically as dozens of shotgun slugs weighed it down. His fur was caked red and pocked with a pale pink that was either skin or flesh. Snaggletooth sneered and rushed the window.
My father pulled me back as he charged but the beast came up short of the window and didn’t roar. I lurched forward and quickly stuffed three licorice sticks in the air-hole. Snaggletooth sniffed the air, inspected the sugary snacks, looked back at me and swallowed them in one bite.
I mashed my face against the grate and called out again. “Tickle, tickle, tickle!”
Snaggletooth looked back, his enormous head hovering six inches from mine, and sneezed, covering my face with blood, fur and snot.
The Park Rangers chortled in relief. “He’s saying thank you.”
***
Injuries
Twins
Oswaldo Arcia – heads
Samuel Deduno – shoulders
Joe Mauer – knees
Wilkin Ramirez – toes
Astros
Corporan – concussion
Gonzalez – right shoulder
JD Martinez – left wrist
Stassi – concussion
White – blah
***
The beer wasn’t for Henry, obviously.
Henry was a servant, sort of. Like a carrier pigeon, but, you know, not at all. The story goes that Henry’s owner was originally given Parakeets for companionship – an idiotic idea in a place like Yosemite – and that Henry dutifully killed off three of them before Operation Parakeet Happiness was fully dismantled. But Henry hung around (possibly hoping for more parakeets) and developed a relationship with the old man.
The old man, The Hermit Templeton, never set foot outside his house and never allowed visitors. Nobody knew all that much about him, which, in a small community, meant that everybody knew something about him. Henry became Mr. Templeton’s lone connection to the outside world and after five years the locals quit bothering and accepted the arrangement. That was ten years ago.
I grabbed a tall-boy of Keystone Light as I left the market and walked back to my cabin.
***
Promotions
Mon thru Weds – Jack Shit Sponsored by CraneCo.
***
Naptime is a wondrous thing, especially when on vacation, so I took advantage of my two free hours and walked down Chilnualna Road. I was told to look for the most impeccably manicured cabin on the road – first one on the right after the Billy Goat Bridge. I found it after 20 minutes and slowed my steps, Keystone Light stretched out in front of me in plain view. The constant hum of heavy machinery drowned out the gurgle of the Merced River as a deep, regular wheezing came to the forefront.
Aahk, aahk, aahk called from above.
“Um, hi, Henry, I brought some beer?” I asked stupidly as I looked up to the front porch eave.
“And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?” an old man’s voice shot from behind the house.
“Mr. Templeton?” I shouted back.
“Why are you here? What the fuck do you want?”
“Well sir, I met Henry this morning at the market and was quite impressed with him. I thought maybe he’d grab three beers if he could carry them, and, well, here I am. I have the third beer.” I’d rehearsed that.
“My worthless asshole of a nephew left an hour ago for Oakhurst. You brought me a beer I can’t open or drink.”
A long pause, then
“Fuck it, come around back,” he called. “I think I see a straw.”
Henry dropped to my level and led me around the right side of the house. A brown wooden deck wrapped from front to back, well-swept and newly-stained. No furniture littered the planks; a patio with no seats and no discernible appeal other than its view, as the massive pines thinned out near the bank of the Merced.
My gaze followed the railing to the back door and fell upon Mr. Templeton, propped upright, encased in a gigantic steel tube. The contraption stood five feet tall and gleamed in the sunlight. Thick, clear plastic holes dotted each side with latches that surely allowed access to the body inside. Dials whirred and knobs turned haphazardly as it wheezed its occupant alive. Emerson Iron Lung read the brand-plate.
Heavy rubber wheels had been crudely welded to the backside near the bottom and two handles protruded the top. A seventy-year-old head poked out the top, greasy white hair tucked behind the ears, long whiskers concealing most of the face. It turned toward me.
“There’s a straw on the deck next to this fucking coffin. Henry will help you. Then get the fuck out.”
I inched toward Mr. Templeton, beer held high.
Henry snatched a green bendy straw from an empty beer can and flew towards me. Then in one swift motion he pecked a hole in the top of the can and landed on my arm. I inserted the straw, placed the fresh beer on the top ledge of the iron lung and looked Old Man Templeton in the eyes.
Then I got the fuck out.
Aahk, aahk, aahk followed me.
“He’s saying thank you,” Mr. Templeton yelled.
***
Finally
This is my last scheduled Series Preview for the year, and I’d like to say thanks to those of you who read and enjoyed them. I’d like to say that, if invited back next year, I’ll write more about actual baseball. But I won’t.
Welcome, Void.