11 ½ (cont)
Draytonio ordered the tortina vitello con bolgnese. The lines of fans around him shuffled toward the counter. The Aramark employees served the favorites: vermicelli con le vongole, brasato al barolo, i tortina vitello con bolgnese.
Draytonio turned to the fan beside him, the one wearing the jersey with “Kent” on the back. “Bon giorno.”
“Boo,” the fan replied.
“It has been a hard season, very hard. There have been good things, though. You need to get to the Tettoia and buy a new jersey. Biggio is always good, Italian. And Pence.”
“Boo,” said the fan.
Who else could Draytonio fire but himself? But then his anxiety melted into the face of his server. “Alyssa,” he whispered. She was so beautiful, in her white dress with the brick red pin stripes, with her black hair and almond eyes. She looked like Kim Ng. She gently offered him a bottle of Pelligrino. She knew baseball, she could help him.
But then she was gone. There was no one there but a large and surly Aramark employee, with hairy forearms and a hairy chin, wiping the sweat from her face with her forearm.
“Signori, move it.”
Draytonio adjusted his RayBans and moved on.
