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Baseball

a story by Rhett Alexander Hamilton

By Rhett Alexander HamiltonPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1

ACT I – A View from the Bridge

Parker Merriweather exited the backseat of his black luxury sedan. He ignited the cigarette softly glued to his lips by the saliva that had dried nearly three minutes before. He inhaled the introductory smoke and peeled the filter from his lips. Parker owned the car and was fully excused to do whatsoever he pleased inside of it, but as any ritualistic vice a person may have, it was far more gratifying to be patient until the opportune moment and everything was perfect—when she was in his sight.

A warm breeze blew through the chilly evening air as Parker enjoyed his cigarette. Across from him, high in the darkening orange sky, was a large billboard of a perfume advertisement. Holding the designer, pink, ovular bottle was an ecstatic and sophisticated woman. Her brown hair curled and extended over the edges of the billboard’s surface and her lips adorned a glossy shade of cherry red lipstick. Loosely wrapped around her wrists were shimmering diamond bracelets leading to her thin hand holding the pink bottle betwixt her long, perfectly manicured fingernails.

Parker pulled a small, pink bottle from his overcoat pocket and sprayed the fragrance upon his right wrist.

The warm breeze enraptured and engulfed him as the sun set underneath the extended pilings of the woman’s curls. He folded back his sleeve to peer at the slowly ticking dial upon his Patek Philippe wristwatch.

Three-two-one.

“There she is,” Parker murmured with a subtle grin as the billboard’s lights illuminated upon its surface.

The scent and sight carried him blissfully away into a different state of mind, where he lay in a bed of roses, jasmine, orange blossoms, and patchouli beside her.

Then, as the winds shifted and reality faded back into focus, Parker finished his cigarette, threw it from the edge of the bridge, and had his driver carry him into the adolescent night.

Unbeknownst to Parker, watching from across the bridge on a cold bench, lit only by the subtle warm ember of his wooden pipe, was an aged artist trying to find purpose in his inspiration, sketching in a small, black notebook.

The man crudely shaded the finishing touches of his newest work: Parker in the moment of effervescent ecstasy, entangled in the fantasy and naivete of amour fou.

The elderly artist had witnessed Parker stop, inhale the billboard alongside the smoke from his cigarette, and ride off in the Rolls Royce in daily repetition for months. Once he had noticed Parker’s ritualistic infatuation, it didn’t take long for his notebook to change from birds and uncanny bridge silhouettes to detailed portraits of a man, his car, a flickering cigarette, and a gleam of intimate youth.

Once the mild tobacco in his pipe had diminished to ash and the darkness of the night had blanketed the textured pages of his notebook, the elderly artist packed away his supplies and returned home.

ACT II – A Kiss by the Apple Tree

He placed the black notebook, aged and disheveled, upon the small wooden table in his kitchen and began to make a tomato sandwich. He hummed a broken melody rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” as he drizzled extra-virgin olive oil on sliced tomatoes and toasted country bread.

“Charles?” a soft and subtle voice fell into his ears. Almost as a whisper, inaudible to most, it felt as diamonds falling onto his skin.

“I’m coming, my love. Just a few more moments,” he said, cutting the tomato sandwich into four equal squares.

After cutting the sandwich, he cleaned the knife with warm water, picked up the porcelain plate with the sandwich and his aged notebook, then carried them up the stairs into the bedroom.

The room was dark, only lit by the warm bedside lamp. “Let’s put a little bit more light in here,” Charles said as he flicked the wall switch with his elbow.

The elderly woman lying under a thick comforter, head buried into a plush pillow, winced as her eyes dilated to the sudden intrusion of the illuminated ceiling fan. She moaned with annoyance, “Oh, I didn’t think I was going to have to look at you.”

A large smile adorned Charles’ face and he laughed, “Well, Dorothy, I know I’m not the same handsome lad I used to be. But you aren’t the young stallion you once were either.”

Dorothy sat up in the bed, “A stallion is a male horse, you moron.”

Charles laughed again, walked over to his wife of fifty years, and kissed her on her still youthful lips. “Eat your sandwich, dear. Would you like me to fetch your teeth or have me put it in a blender for you?”

“Ah!” Dorothy remarked as she grasped the porcelain plate from Charles. “God, please take me away in a chariot of fire before my husband has to serve me blended sandwiches!”

Charles walked to the kitchen and poured a cool glass of hand-squeezed lemonade. When he returned to his wife, he saw her holding a tomato sandwich square and looking passionately at the new sketch in his black notebook.

“This is the best one yet,” Dorothy observed with a prideful tear falling down her cheek.

-

Many moons before, when the dawn of man was nearer than the dusk, when Charles and Dorothy were only children, soon to embark on the perilous journey of their teenage dramas, the two participated in a neighborhood game of baseball.

The day was a dark grey—the edifice of black shadowed the burnt summer grass field. Winds blew the tree branches harshly and the incoming storm started to mold and take form.

It was the bottom of the ninth and Dorothy was up to bat. She was the star hitter and had scored over seven runs throughout the game.

“Come on, Dottie, bring us home!” the boy on second base yelled at her, ready to run home and have their team win.

The pitcher threw the ball at an impressive speed of 73mph.

Dorothy squinted her eyes to focus, swung the bat, and launched the impacted ball. Charles, playing center field, watched the ball fly past inner field. He ran to the fence, jumped on it, and outstretched his glove. No matter his efforts, the ball collided with the old apple tree on the other side.

Dorothy brought the other players on bases home, a victory for her team. The group of children celebrated as if they had won the grandest achievement the world had to offer. Dorothy was lifted on high, the other children inferior to her grace.

Charles’ team slowly walked to the celebrating children, taking their loss in stride, as the dark wind began to blow more ferociously.

“Congratulations, Dottie,” Charles said.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dorothy responded. “Sorry about your ball.”

“I saw the tree it hit. I think I know where it is,” Charles said, beginning to make his way to his baseball.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Dorothy asked.

Charles turned around and looked at her.

For the first time, he truly saw her beauty—with her long, brown hair falling from her reverse hat, and freckles spread over her pale face. Butterflies grew in his stomach and his heart skipped a beat.

I’m going to marry that girl, he thought and smiled.

“Sure,” he answered with a lump in his throat.

The storm grew harsher as the two children searched around the apple tree, looking for the baseball.

“Here it is!” Dorothy yelled ecstatically, lifting the torn old ball high in the air for every living creature to bear witness.

Charles ran to her and as he took the ball from her hand, thunder roared loudly through the trees, making the two children grab onto each other in fear.

Charles’ face became immersed in Dorothy’s soft, brown hair, a sanctuary of flowers and fruits.

Once he released himself from her haven, Charles felt a strand of Dorothy’s hair in his mouth.

He pinched it with his fingers and pulled it from his cheek. “I’m supposing you’re not going to want this back?” he asked, holding the strawberry flavored strand before her.

Dorothy laughed, put her hand on his cheek, and kissed him.

“I like you a lot, Charlie,” she said, pulled an apple from the tree and headed home before the rain began to fall.

ACT III – A Picture in the Window

Ophelia stepped onto a thin blanket of snow as she exited the plane. She held her dark blue Burberry overcoat tightly around her, temporarily thwarting off the chilly weather until her body became more acclimated.

It had been almost a year since she had been home.

She lived an average childhood growing up in Stockholm until a divine day when a vacationing modeling agent came across her path.

Now, she was the face of the most acclaimed fashion brand in the world. She had made her own fortune, battled her aging body and face, and defeated any challenge placed in her path.

Lately, planes and hotels felt more at home for her than her loft apartments. There was always a makeup chair, dress, diamond studded watch, and runway for her to gracefully uphold.

And even though beauty has always been subjective, with its definition evolving and changing throughout human evolution, it has always been a remunerative trait. People have always been attracted to symmetrical faces and flower petals, landmarks and buildings with the golden ratio, and the finely tuned details of the universe.

Her body remained the sacrificial lamb with countless meals replaced with a warm glass of tea and a cigarette. Her bone structure was like a perfectly tuned harp, with every step down the runway a crescendo in the universal symphony. All throughout Ophelia’s life, she had to veil her mortal foibles for the sake of her golden instrument.

She sat in the backseat of the black Rolls Royce and looked at her wedding ring. How broken her heart felt and distant her marriage seemed. She hadn’t felt romance or intimacy in such a long while, the man who placed the ring upon her felt as a fading memory.

The driver pulled to the curb and Ophelia stepped from the vehicle.

“Thank you,” she told the chauffer before making her way down the sidewalk to a corner café.

She stopped, lit a cigarette, and inhaled—feeling like the first actual breath she had taken in months. She relaxed her shoulders and glanced inside a gallery window.

There, she saw it.

She placed her hands upon the cold window and emotional tears fell down her reddened cheeks.

Ophelia walked into the gallery and told the owner she would like to purchase the sketch.

She withdrew her checkbook, filled it out, and gave the check to the owner before taking the framed picture and wrapping it in her arms.

“Miss,” the owner spoke to her in shock. “Twenty thousand dollars is far too much to warrant this kind of investment. The artist isn’t very well known!”

Ophelia turned to the man as she was halfway out the door, “It is worth every penny,” she replied weakly. “Sometimes… sometimes we get so busy trying to find our purpose, we forget about the people who love us most.”

She stepped back inside the gallery, flakes of snow now upon her hair and the welcome bell jingled as the door closed.

Ophelia nibbled on the inside of her cheeks and stood holding the picture closely. Once the right words came to her, she looked at the picture, smiled, and spoke with more vitality, “Sometimes you’re willing to give up on who cares about you the most.” She raised her head, the gallery owner still gazing at her in confusion, check still in his hand.

Ophelia cleared her throat, “It’s of my husband… Please tell the artist he’s created something priceless.”

She left the gallery, gentle snow falling upon her, on her way to Parker.

THE END

Audio/Visual Presentation of "Baseball": https://youtu.be/pYa_vPpLyGM

marriage
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About the Creator

Rhett Alexander Hamilton

On a treasure excursion, in the deep forests of Fiji, a local had entrusted me with a magical emerald pen - leading me to become one of the most prominent writers in American literature.

Pseudonyms: Alexander (Adult) and Ana Mercer (Y/A)

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