by
Trisky
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...
It’s like a chorus of monks chanting monotonously, over and over in my head. I guess it could be worse, it could be the screeching sounds of dirty dishes. Only baseballs don’t bounce, and this particular ball has already rolled to a halt, so it’s not all that hard to follow. So why does my brain keep turning those words over and over, stretching and dulling them into one long drone? I’m not really sure what possessed me to ask. Maybe that’s a lie? I sort of know what possessed me. I’m just not sure why it possessed me at this very moment. Maybe that’s a bit of a lie too. It’s just a feeling that’s been stuck in my head for a while now, that I can’t entirely explain. It’s sort of a sick feeling, like when you know you’re on the verge of getting the flu, but the symptoms are really vague until you wake up one morning and everything just aches. I’ve been in that stage for a while, only it’s my head that’s been stuck between that healthy and sick kind of feeling. It feels like I’ve been swimming in murky, strange water and I can’t focus, everything is just one big blur. The blurrier it gets, the sharper my sense to flee becomes, but the less my limbs cooperate.
I know I’ve taken him by surprise and I’m prepared for the fact that I won’t get a straight answer from him, even though he promised. I’m not really sure I ever expected one, but I felt like I had to ask, for so many reasons. People’s feelings don’t change overnight. They just don’t. Believe me, I know. You can’t talk yourself out of your natural inclinations, you can’t convince yourself to turn your back on feelings you’ve had for forever, or what seems like it sometimes. Not that easily, no way, no how. Maybe with time, he can show me how he does it, because I’d love to know. I’m just not convinced that you can manage it with a snap of your fingers. Mostly, I just want to know the truth. It seems like a silly thing to want from Brian, of all people, but he’s about the only one I trust to give it to me. It certainly can’t hurt to ask. No harm, no foul.
He stares at the dusty outline of homeplate. There’s no actual base there, but if you look hard enough you can see where it should go, if there were. The ball skirts the edge of a point where two blurred lines in the dirt connect, to his left and my right.
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...
“Are you gonna answer the question?” So I admit it, part of me is totally freaked out by his silence and the sort of ashen look on his face. I figure if I prod him along, he’ll either answer or tell me to shut the fuck up. Anything has to be better than stony silence.
“No. Because it has fuck all to do with anything.” He rubs his pitching shoulder, out of distraction, mostly. It could be pain, I suppose. I don’t like to think about him ever being in pain, for whatever reason. I tend to want to block that out of my head.
Well, I was right not to expect an answer and close enough on the fuck part. Somehow, I’m not entirely satisfied. “Only, it kinda does,” I challenge him, unexpectedly. I’m not sure who’s more shocked, me or him.
I guess I was fooling myself, because I didn’t really understand how or why it mattered, until right this very second. Before, it was just this big mystery and I could fill the blanks in any way that I wanted. Usually that involved making excuses for why it couldn’t be that bad. Of course, I had to make excuses, because my gut said otherwise. His total refusal to answer tells me that my gut was right all along. Just as I suspected, no one can change their spots that easily. I feel a slight sense of panic. It doesn’t ‘kinda’ have something to do with anything, it has absolutely everything to do with everything. And, that, scares the fucking shit out of me.
“What does some stupid, half-drunk, half-assed punch from months ago have to do with your big plan to save me from homelessness?” He spits his reaction out, half-calm, half-belligerent, like he can’t decide what reaction would be better, to get me to shut up quicker.
I didn’t realize until now, that it had much of anything to do with anything. It was just something I’d been curious about since it happened. Brian would never hit someone unless he was backed into a wall, especially Michael. Never Michael. Then he did. It felt like the world tipped sideways for a minute. It was just a big blur of confusion. Ever since then I’ve just had this nagging feeling that clung to the back of my mind and hung on for ages. It seemed to hurl itself forward during my discussion with Michael this afternoon and now it won’t leave without a proper explanation.
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...
Like some annoying fucking chant that I can’t get rid of.
“Because, I don’t understand...” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t understand a lot of things. It’s hard to pinpoint just one and needing to understand why he hit Michael suddenly seems like the least of my concerns. I stare at the blurry edges of home, trying to delineate clearer lines in my mind, to form a shape. For some reason my mind can’t conjure up what it should look like. “I don’t know how to forgive him. I don’t even know why I want to, but for some reason I know I have to.” Especially if I intend to be any help to Brian, at all.
Now I know, it has everything to do with everything, and very little to do with Michael, at all, and everything that was blurry before is becoming clearer and clearer. It’s so weird the way things connect themselves in your brain, without even trying.
“It’s not your fight to have.”
“Of course it is,” I blink away the glare of the sun. I mean, of course it’s my fight, how could it not be?
I’m not really good with the forgiveness stuff. It’s something that Brian has all over me. He forgives a hell of a lot more than I ever would, more than I think I’d ever be capable of. More than I think he even realizes he’s capable of. It’s good in a way, obviously. But then I think, too much forgiveness and too few expectations of people is only going to wind up hurting him in the long run.
Like I did. Like I am.
Like I did. Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball... Like I am.
Jesus, I did that. Me. All by myself. For someone who doesn’t like to think about him being in pain, I sure as hell know how to keep causing it.
“People do and say stupid things they never meant to, that’s life. You can either hold it against them forever or you can let it go.” He brushes it off. It’s as simple as that to him. It’s what he needs to believe.
I didn’t realize just how much I’ve yet to learn about forgiveness or how much he’s already shown me that I’ve soaked up like a sponge. I didn’t realize how many stilts and shaky reinforcements his house of forgiveness is built on, how the sands shift so frequently underneath it.
“Why don’t I believe that you really let things go?” He wouldn’t be him if he did. He’s just as incapable of turning off what he feels as the rest of us are. He doesn’t have any deeper explanations, he’s just better at moving forward and not letting it paralyze him. Sometimes. Maybe it’s more about denying than it is about true forgiveness. Maybe that’s the only way to deal.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me.” It’s not a threat, but it’s not exactly pleasant.
“I’m not trying to, Brian.” I force my hand across the great divide, invading and blurring the lines of personal space, by clinging to his forearm with my hand, forcing him to stay. “I’m just trying...”
“To understand. I heard you the first time.” I am. I hope he knows that. He needs to know that. I’m not trying to force him into a place he doesn’t want to be. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes and I cling to that almost as hard as I cling to his arm. “Why is what he does or says so important to you?”
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...
“It’s not. You are. Way more than stupid fucking pride that doesn’t matter, is. If I have to swallow it down to find a way to get along with him, I will.”
“You think it’s about your pride?” He squints, from the sun I assume, even though it’s not directly in his eyes.
“Yeah. What else would it be about?”
“And you want me to tell you about forgiving someone. I’d say you’re pretty much on the right track already,” he cracks a half-smile.
“Why do you say that?” I return the other half.
“It’s kind of... actually, it’s not kind of, it is mature to not let your pride get in the way of forgiving someone who wished you’d been left for dead, in the heat of the moment. I think you already understand a lot more than you give yourself credit for. It takes a big man to realize that it was just anger speaking.” He bends between us, to pick up the tattered remains of the ball, wiping it free of dirt.
Batter up.
What? “What?”
“I said I would answer, no bullshit. You got what you wanted. There’s your answer,” he nods to confirm what I think my brain just heard, but can’t be sure.
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball... swing batter, batter swing... follow the bouncing... like I can’t.
I try to hold still and not shatter into a million little pieces on the spot. I would hate to get blood on his sneakers. It’s not like he can afford to run out and buy new ones, at the moment.
I wasn’t expecting that. It’s one thing to be prepared to hear something kind of negative, it’s another to be hit between the eyes with something you never, ever thought in a million years. I’d always suspected I was involved somehow. His non-answer was confirmation enough for me. That was all I really wanted to know. It’s just that sometimes we fall back into assuming we can read each others minds and we think we’re following each other’s thoughts. I’m not really sure why we do that, it’s not like we’ve ever been any good at following the bits of conversation we do have, much less the ones we may or may not be having and have to read between the lines to understand.
“I wasn’t really referring to Michael,” I kind of choke on my own words. Choke on the respect I show him by not reacting in a way that would cause Brian to punch me in the face just to get me to shut up, so much more respect than he ever showed me.
The ball hangs by its loose thread in his hand, the seam coming apart even more. “You asked me why I hit him.” His confusion is palpable. I don’t blame him. Not for this. It’s not his fault my brain jumps through more hoops than a trained circus animal. He shouldn’t be expected to follow along.
“I know what I asked you. But you said you didn’t want to answer. I’m sorry... I’m sorry.” I feel my inner drama queen on the verge of escaping. My face flushes and my knee wobbles precariously, like all the hysteria in my body has drained itself into my lower half to prevent my head from exploding all over again. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm the fuck down. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter what I was talking about,” I manage, very, very weakly.
“I wouldn’t have told you, if I didn’t think you could handle it.” I think that’s meant as a boost of confidence, but it just translates into gibberish.
I’m not really impressed by the fact that he thinks I can handle things. I don’t really want to handle things like this. I don’t think it’s a mark of my character that I don’t fall into a puddle of tears over this. I think, I might be angry now, as irrational and immature as he might find it. I’m fucking pissed off and surprisingly grateful. Weird combination, I know. I’m glad I know the truth, as painful as it was to hear, it wasn’t fair to me that I didn’t know before now. Forever and always, outside that inner fucking sanctum. But now that I do know, it only frustrates me more. It’s just not right.
I suppose I wouldn’t be so angry if I didn’t care and that makes me sad, more than anything. It hurts and I know it shouldn’t. I know I should just brush it off and ‘handle it’, maybe just ‘let it go’, but I’m not sure I’m anymore capable of it than Brian claims to be.
“Well, it’s good to know where we all stand.” That’s not a lie, no matter how sarcastic it sounds coming out of my mouth.
“Don’t take it out on Michael, he didn’t mean what he said.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t psychoanalyze you if you don’t defend him to me,” I say, a certain amount of resolve I didn’t know I possessed at the moment, creeping into my voice. I’m not in the mood to play that particular game.
“Why not? I defended you to him.” For some reason his indifferent, even, oh so calm attitude really grates on my nerves when I’m at the height of my annoyance. I can’t seem to bring myself to care that he would risk a lifelong friendship to defend my moral right to not be left for dead.
“To be totally honest with you? I really don’t give a shit. That’s your deal, not mine. I never asked you to.” I rub the dirt into the ground with the toes of my sneaker. The outline of homeplate disappears entirely on one side, thanks to my footwork. All that’s left is the blurred outline of half of home, and the limp ragged ball in his hand.
“Is there going to be catfighting involved? Because if there is, I’d appreciate an advance warning. Maybe I could sell some tickets and make some money.” He clips my chin, mockingly.
“Sorry to break it to you, but there won’t be any fighting. We don’t have to be friends, we just have to work together.” Brian’s absolutely right, you can either hold it against a person forever, or let it go. I choose to hold it against Michael forever, for the moment.
He rubs his temples. “It’s up to you. I won’t force you to be his friend. Just remember, he’s still mine and that’s not going to change. So you can make it easy on yourself or you can make it hard.” He relinquishes his hold on his spastic little ball, dropping it on the half of home that I haven’t managed to demolish.
Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...
“I’ll remember you said that,” I warn him. Unlike certain people, I don’t like to drop a house on anyone’s head out of the clear blue sky. If I wasn’t sure before of what I need to do, I am now, because no matter how much I’d like to wipe the smugness right out of him sometimes, I meant what I said. He means way more to me than any amount of pride. If he could suck it up, then so can I.
“On a scale of 1-10 how much am I really going to hate whatever sick, demented perversion you’re conjuring up in that little brain of yours?”
I smirk and roll his ball under my foot. From this angle, it almost doesn’t look deformed. Almost. Home almost looks complete when you’re stepping on the part that’s totally destroyed. Almost. It’s just missing a bit of something, like a base and something intact to play with.
Follow the bouncing ball... that leads me where I am, half a home, half a life. Almost whole.
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