They opened, one-by-one. Six-by-seven blocks of six-by-seven cubicles (with balcony!), plotted along the inside track of a squared horseshoe; each with a sliding-glass door that stayed stubbornly sealed. That they could open was an aberration in itself; that mine would open was uncertain at this point.
Because there was plenty to do with the door closed.
***
Sleep was the obvious choice. The bed looked comfortable, with a heavy white duvet that lay atop what seemed like 14 layers of various thicknesses. I should simply give in, set a timer for 12 hours and literally double my combined rest from the previous three days. The work was finished, the week was ending, and all I had to do was drag my sorry ass to the airport in the morning. But I was hungry. And thirsty. And I didn’t want tomorrow to start just yet. Sleeping isn’t always relaxing.
So I began what has come to be an evening routine while on the road. Fire up the laptop and find a baseball game on TV. Maybe listen to an album and click through the bookmarks on my browser.
But I couldn’t concentrate. Exhaustion deadened my senses as webpages faded in and out without comprehension or focus. Tiny noises pounded at my eardrums – the click of my mouse, the hum of the air conditioner. Ants crawled down my limbs yet inside my skin. I was sleeping, and aware of it. My eyelids closed, then opened as I fought my delirium.
I slept more on airplanes in the last week than I did in beds. But a hotel bed is not what I needed.
I splashed some water on my face and stared in the mirror. What time is it? Shit, what day is it? And where the fuck am I?
I shuffled to the window and threw back the curtain. Not a window, but a door. I unlatched the lever and slid it open. There, outside, was a world unknown to me. There, outside, was life.
I shut the laptop and threw my cell phones on the bed. I have a TV at home. I can check my email tomorrow. I can sleep when I’m dead.
I left. My door was open.
***
Friday June 28, 2013 – MMPUS 7pm
Jerome Williams (5-3) vs Bud Norris (5-7)
Saturday June 29, 2013 – MMPUS 3pm
Joe Blanton (1-10) vs Jordan Lyles (4-2)
Sunday June 30, 2013 – MMPUS 1pm
CJ Wilson (7-5) vs Lucas Harrell (5-8)
***
Steelhead Diner came highly recommended by a local, so I pointed my feet in that general direction. The cool air that billowed in from the water perked me up, and one shoe eventually followed the other as the hotel shrunk behind me.
The boardwalk crawled with tourists, and I slipped through the throng with my head down. The Public Market sat ahead, empty in the waning evening hours save for a few sweepers and moppers. The smell of fish hung in the air; a memory of marine life long past and newly present. If they shut this place down, brought it to the ground and erected a Febreze factory in its place it would still smell like fish for decades to come.
The diner was just around the corner, and I ducked in. Where I was expecting a greasy counter with a gum-smacking waitress named Flo I found a trendy restaurant and a bartender named Gustav. This will do.
I ordered a local IPA and a sockeye salmon/white asparagus salad at the bar. Truffle clam chowder appetizer. A middle-aged man who looked a lot like Robert Downey Jr. sidled up next to me and ordered a beer. He pocketed an electric cigarette and started talking. Robert was in town from Austin for a job interview and was trying to figure out if the move would be worth it. He clearly thought a lot of himself, and to be honest there was quite a bit to think of him. He had a hand in Eeyore’s Birthday and Burning Flipside, and we carried the conversation through three beers and out the door.
The two Texans then walked back to the Public Market in search of a man from Killeen.
***
Promotions
Friday – fireworks
Saturday – 10,000 fans get a Home Replica Jersey
Sunday – nothing
***
We found the man from Killeen easily – at a little park in between the market and the boardwalk. Greg didn’t know us, didn’t care, but was happy to see us. He ran track back in his high school days and held a record in hurdles a lifetime ago. I mentioned a mutual acquaintance, my college friend Miguel, whom he recalled in detail from a similar encounter years ago. We chatted for a few minutes, shook hands, and left him where we found him, both sides richer.
Robert, happy to have made the introduction, gave me a business card and lied that he’d get in touch with me the next time he’s in Houston. I lied that I’d look forward to it, and we went our separate ways.
***
Injuries
Angels
Peter Bourjos – fibroids
Sean Burnett – hot flashes
Robert Coello – hangnail
Tommy Hanson – irritable bowel syndrome
Ryan Madson – missing left ear
Andrew Taylor – slept in
Jason Vargas – made a funny face so long it stuck
Astros
Trevor Crowe – right shoulder
Edgar Gonzalez – right shoulder
Justin Maxwell – concussion (might be back for the series)
Alex White – do I really have to list him?
***
My door was open. The balcony wasn’t big, maybe four-by-four feet, but it was big enough for the desk chair. A woman above me leaned against the rail with a cigarette, a man across the way waited for his wife to get ready, two teenagers to my right looked up from their cell phones.
I cupped my hands together and looked at what the man from Killeen gave me. Light yet dense, purple but mostly green; a thick grey vapor encircled it as it shrank in my hands. After four or five minutes, it vanished. I melted into the chair.
Six-by-seven blocks of six-by-seven cubicles opened, one-by-one, to reveal their inhabitants. We didn’t know each other, didn’t care, but we were happy to see each other.
Because before us, clearer than any TV, more immediate than any website and more vivid than any dream, the sun set over Puget Sound.
I relaxed. I slept.