White Concrete
White Concrete
By Russell Thayer
Her favorite barman studied a patch of box scores in The Chronicle. Smoothing a narrow-cut mustache with thumb and forefinger, he cursed over some tally that didn’t please him. The paper lay open on the bar. It was early and quiet at the Swing Club.
“I think you’d be happier,” said Maggie, “if you poured me a beer.”
“No!” said Otis. “I tell you every night. It’s against the law. You deaf or something?”
“Another Coca-Cola, then. It’ll be your fault if this bubbly crud rots my teeth.” She smiled, but Otis didn’t glance at her mouth, even though other men had told her it was pretty to look at. She didn’t mind the occasional soda, but preferred the Lucky Lager most adults drank at the bar. Coca-Cola was piss for teenagers. Maggie wasn’t a teenager anymore, but she wasn’t yet twenty-one, and no friendly man had come along to squeeze for beer.
Strong, handsome Otis wouldn’t look at her because he was angry about something she hadn’t even said or done, but she knew he liked her. That knowledge made her eyes brighten when she looked at him. Blushing a little under her freckles, she pushed her bobbed, coppery hair behind her ears in a way she thought was cute. It was Saturday evening, and she had finished her shift at the restaurant, comfortable at the bar in her white-trimmed yellow uniform. The jazz combo wouldn’t start for a couple of hours. Fizzy beer and hot jazz were all she lived for these days. Charlie Parker had winked at her from that stage.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
Otis shoved a bowl of peanuts in her direction. Once the music started, some man would buy her big, round plates of steaming oysters. She’d laugh, hang on the man’s arm, and be drunk by eleven. Maggie rarely felt ashamed of herself. Even when she wondered if Otis ever imagined her thin, pale body against his.
“Okay, fella,” she said. “What’s the matter? Why are you so sore?”
He folded up the newspaper.
“A buddy and I were going to the ballpark tomorrow, but his goddamn appendix burst. I feel for him, I do, but now I’m stuck with two tickets, and it ain’t right to go to a game by yourself.”
Maggie blinked her eyes as invitingly as she could while Otis pulled a draft beer for an anxious customer down the bar. He turned his back to her while he delivered the foamy glass, collecting a few coins and dropping them into a drawer.
“You bought tickets ahead of time?” asked Maggie when Otis brought his face around to her again. “You don’t like to wait in line with your fellow man? Pushing your money through that charming little window when it’s your turn?”
“Probably be a sellout. That’s why I did it.”
“Take your daughter, or some other pretty girl.” Maggie shifted on her stool, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.
“My baby girl’s too young for the salty language.”
“I am not,” she said with a grin, noticing his frown deepen. “Anyway, what’s so special about this particular game? Aren’t they generally rather dull affairs?”
“This one’s a big deal because John Ritchey and the Padres are coming to town.”
“Are the Padres a group of singing friars?”
“What?” Otis questioned her with a crumpled, quizzical expression. She liked it when he did that.
“A monk-strel show, if you will,” she added.
“You dummy. That’s the baseball team from San Diego.”
“What’s so special about Mr. Ritchey and his Padres?”
“He’s the first Negro player in the Coast League. That’s what’s special. Won the batting title with the Chicago Giants last year. Couldn’t keep him from the white man’s game after that. Ritchey’s the first, but there’s gonna be plenty more.”
“What about that Robinson fellow who started with Brooklyn last year?” Maggie crushed a peanut shell between her fingers. She read the papers too.
Otis hung his head.
“That…don’t…count. The National League ain’t the Pacific Coast League.”
“I see,” said Maggie, deciding to be blunt. “Well, the weather is supposed to be lovely tomorrow. You know I don’t work Sunday. Why don’t we make a day of it? Just so you won’t have to go alone. I’ve never tasted a hot dog. You can introduce me to this mind-boggling game of yours.”
“Hell, no. I ain’t gonna take you to no ball game. You crazy?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s 1948.”
“What world are you living in? This ain’t jolly ol’ England.”
“The English can be peckerwoods too,” said Maggie, deploying one of her favorite new terms. “Every last one of us.”
“You ain’t no peckerwood,” said Otis.
“And I’ve never been to England.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Here we go. English girl ain’t never been to England. Maggie Bates. China Coast girl. I heard it all before. Hong Kong Magpie.” He leaned over the bar to whisper at her. “Now hear this. She don’t know much about this country, either.”
“I know plenty.”
“You ain’t even old enough to drink,” said Otis, polishing a glass with his towel.
“I ain’t old enough to buy myself a drink. Yet.”
Otis examined the glass in bar light.
“I bet you drove them Japs crazy in that Manila prison camp where you lived. Sometimes I wish Uncle Sam hadn’t liberated your skinny ass so you can bonk that hard head of yours against my bar every goddamned night like a piece of driftwood.”
Maggie smiled. He knew her better than anyone.
* * *
Around midnight, Otis agreed to escort Maggie to the ball game if she in turn agreed to not go home with the middle-aged man who’d been buying her drinks and oysters all evening while she snuggled against him, snapping her fingers and shaking her head to the blistering jazz beats. Maggie clapped her hands together with glee at the change of heart, charmed by Otis’ nobility and guilelessness, then happily sent the disappointed grandpa home alone.
* * *
Maggie zipped herself into a sleeveless sundress, the cream-colored fabric alive with flowers and honeybees. What a different sort of Sunday this promised to be, she thought. A date with a handsome man who cared enough to warn her that the seats at Seals Stadium were not covered, not protected from the sun or rain. Maggie borrowed a pretty straw hat from Mrs. Bragana, the owner of the Ristorante Bella Rosa, where she worked. The young waitress kept herself and her things in a small room above the establishment.
Maggie and Otis met outside the Swing Club. She didn’t know where he lived. He didn’t seem to care to know where she made her bed. Attired in a red polo shirt and dark brown wool blazer, Otis complimented Maggie on her dress and fine hat, then escorted her some distance south on foot. During the walk, Otis answered her pestering questions about his daughter, Jocelyn, whom Maggie was dying to meet. The little girl was four years old and allegedly a ball of fire. Grabbing a trolley, they took it east through the Mission to the corner of Bryant and Sixteenth. Otis wouldn’t look at Maggie during the crowded ride, wouldn’t talk to her. It was as if they were strangers.
Once they entered Seals Stadium, Otis warmed to her again. As they moved out of the inner shadows, rented seat cushions under their arms, the glorious afternoon spread out across cascading rows of white concrete grandstands to a sea of grass.
“Good heavens,” said Maggie. “What is that smell? Fresh bread?”
“Bread factory,” said Otis, pointing to a large building outside the stadium wall.
“My senses tell me there’s beer nearby.” A man had passed with one in each hand.
“Beer factory,” said Otis, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at a tall building looming behind them. A large red R in fanciful script decorated the top of the structure.
“I love it here already,” said Maggie, smiling up at Otis through dark aviator sunglasses. She tried to take his arm, but he pushed her hand away.
“Stop it, you damn fool.”
Maggie laughed. People stared. She watched their features stiffen. To hell with everyone, she thought. It was a perfect day. She felt like cavorting.
The game hadn’t started yet. Otis led Maggie to their seats. After Otis arranged the cushions, Maggie settled onto hers, feeling like a flower among the heavy dark suit jackets and brown hats.
A brass band began to toot “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Maggie was instructed to stand up again right away, along with everyone else in the stadium. The sun felt hotter than she’d expected, and she worried that her arms and shoulders might burn pink. The crowd cheered as the band finished and the Seals trotted onto the grass. The sun-bronzed men spread out into a wide array of locations, bright white uniforms blazing in the sun. San Diego would apparently swing their bats first.
“Gonna get myself a hot dog,” said Otis. “You want one?”
“A beer will help me wash it down,” said Maggie.
“I’ll think about it,” said Otis as he pushed down their row.
“You’re off the clock!” Maggie shouted after him.
A couple of dark-skinned men in seats to her right seemed to be admiring her, and the attention made her sit up straight in her chair. She adjusted the angle of her sun hat. Two cops leaned lazily against the railing at the bottom of the steps, sipping beer.
A pale man reached over her shoulder with a pint in a brown paper bag.
“Is that your chauffeur?” he asked.
“That’s a rude thing to suggest,” said Maggie, taking a swallow from the bottle, then coughing delicately into her fist as the cheap bourbon scalded her throat. “He’s my babysitter.”
“You could come out with me right now, baby. While he’s gone. I’ll treat you right.”
“Thanks, but he might tell my mommy.” She knew she should ignore the narrow-minded chap, but it was hard to resist a little clowning on such a pretty day.
“Suit yourself,” said the man, settling back into his seat, mumbling something about scrawny white strumpets spreading their legs for something or other.
As she glanced to her left, about ten seats away, she noticed an attractive, mahogany-complexioned woman looking at her with emotionless features. Her hard eyes made Maggie uncomfortable.
The sound of wooden sticks smacking little white balls to men in pajamas scurrying about on smooth garden dirt reminded Maggie of a pin game and drew her attention until Otis settled beside her again, his hands busy with hot dogs and two beers in paper cups.
“Thanks,” said Maggie, accepting a beer and a warm bundle.
“Don’t gobble that thing down whole,” said Otis. “They can sit on your chest for a spell.”
“Lovely,” said Maggie as she unwrapped the odd sandwich. She didn’t care for the volume of ketchup Otis had spilled over their hot dogs, and bit through the soggy bun into the pink, flavorless tube. “This tastes like baloney.” She wanted to spit the mess into her hand. “It looks like baloney. Is this what they call Vienna sausage?”
“Some folks like ’em with mustard and onions,” mumbled Otis as he chewed.
“Of course they do. I hope it’s not dog meat.”
“Might be,” said Otis.
Maggie rolled her eyes, then noticed a dollop of ketchup on her left breast. She dabbed at the crimson spot with the hot dog wrapper, smearing it into a blot the size of a half dollar.
“Goddammit.”
“That’s why I wear a red shirt,” said Otis.
An air of tension rose when Otis’s hero, Ritchey, stepped from the San Diego hideout to swing his bat around in the air for a few seconds. The crowd booed as he strode to the white tile where all the batsmen started their expeditions. Otis had explained to her that the tile was called “home” and that everyone needed to get back home to make a run. Maggie snorted at the idea. Ritchey, a light-skinned man with Caucasian features, stood completely still as the pitcher tossed three apparently unhittable balls toward him. The crowd booed some more.
“Throw him the piss curve, you sack of shit!” screamed the man behind Maggie. He’d already poured too much bourbon down his throat.
Maggie leaned against Otis’s shoulder in order to be heard above the din.
“What’s the piss curve?”
Otis tilted his head toward her, chewing happily.
“That’s a pitch what looks like it’s gonna be so fat you can hit it a mile. Then it slides down and away, makin’ the batter look like a fool if he swings at it. And he usually does.”
“I see.”
“Only a peck would throw it when he’s behind the batter three an’ oh,” said Otis, tipping his head toward the man over his shoulder. “If you got the nerve to just stand there and take it, ya get a free Sunday stroll down to first base.”
Maggie took another bite of her hot dog, nodding as if she understood how the pitcher could be in front of and behind the batter at the same time. And the blasted woman still stared at her. She could see that Otis had now noticed.
“Who is that lovely creature?” asked Maggie. “And why is she so interested in us?”
“That there is Nina. Never thought I’d see her at the ballpark. She tried to get me after my wife died. I said no.”
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“I expect that’s true.”
“Does she think I’ve gotten you?”
“You ain’t got me,” said Otis.
“She’s awfully pretty. Did you make out?”
“Pretty don’t make me stupid. She’s got no heart. She just wants to get her hands on my settlement.”
“Your settlement?” Maggie took another bite of hot dog.
“I got money from the hospital after May died. Nina wanted me to buy a car with it, buy her clothes. She likes to play.”
“That settlement is for your daughter. What woman wouldn’t understand that?” Maggie swallowed a little more of her beer, watching Nina over the rim of her cup. Nina’s stone face turned toward the game as the crowd jeered at something.
Maggie decided the game of baseball was a waste of time. Nothing strategic seemed to happen, yet the crowd took offense at every swing of the bat, barking like a herd of seals for no apparent reason. At least sitting next to a handsome man made up for the nonsense.
Otis left again, returning with peanuts and more beer.
“Go easy now,” he said. “This is a doubleheader.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means,” said Maggie.
“It does.”
“Will it be dark when we leave?”
“And cool. Did you bring a sweater?”
“No. May I suggest we go to a movie instead of watching the second contest?”
“The second game doesn’t cost any extra,” said Otis, handing her a bag of peanuts.
Because it’s not worth anything, thought Maggie. Taking a sip of beer, she looked up just as the crowd roared. A roundly driven ball ricocheted off the head of the man in front of her. Otis instinctively moved to protect her face with his arm, but ended up knocking the beer cup out of her hand, spilling its contents into her lap.
“I’ll fetch a dry rag from the concessions,” said Otis. He sighed and started to rise.
“Don’t fret about it. A trip to the ladies’ toilet is in order, and that will give me a chance to thoroughly scrub this poor dress. Excuse me.”
Otis let her pass with a compressed look of embarrassment as she brushed against him. At the end of the row, Maggie turned up the steps toward the services. Someone shouted something at her from her left. The first word was that word Negroes got riled up about if a Caucasian said it to their face. The second word was whore.
* * *
Placing the sunglasses on her face as she breached the gangway, the front of her dress wrinkled and damp, but reeking less of beer, Maggie noticed a disturbance near to where she’d been sitting. It seemed that Otis and the peckerwood seated behind them had gotten into some sort of argument. Her saddle shoes scraped on the concrete steps as she hurried down. The man appeared to be lecturing Otis on a matter of propriety, and Otis had his hands up, as if telling the man to remain calm. Some of the dark-skinned men around him had gotten to their feet. Nina also stood now, smiling, her arms folded. The two lazy cops interviewed a man on the steps. The man made an ugly face and pointed at Maggie as she approached. One cop shook his head with disdain. Maggie wished three beers didn’t make her walk like a drunk.
Looking back toward the disturbance, she could see the bastard draw close to Otis. He whispered something. A sudden rage broke over her, and she lurched into his row, pushing roughly against people’s legs. Otis smirked at the man’s comment or suggestion, turning to sit down just as Maggie pounded the peckerwood on his ear with her fist. The man shrieked and covered his face with his hands. A woman stood, took hold of Maggie’s arm, called her a slut, and demanded she behave herself. Maggie pushed the woman back into her seat, which ignited the woman’s husband, who pushed Maggie over a seatback and into the row below, where she cracked her face on the dirty concrete, smashing her sunglasses. There was much laughter as Maggie quickly stood up, then nearly passed out, blood running down the side of her face, the straw hat flattened on one side. Otis caught her as she collapsed, her bloody face against his chest, the clever red shirt.
* * *
A young woman in a skirted baseball uniform, her features pinched with concern, handed Maggie a damp towel filled with ice, then strapped a few Band-Aids to the corner of her forehead. Otis had carried her up the steps. A doctor enjoying the game walked over to take a look at her eyeballs, saying she’d probably live. A crowd of people stood and gawked at the ungodly scene. The two lazy policemen hovered. It must be awful to work the food concessions here, Maggie thought as the girl wiped the blood off her face, wondering about the pay and whether the girls were forced to eat hot dogs all day.
“Let’s go, you two,” said one of the cops.
“Where?” asked Maggie, worried she might be going to jail.
“Outside.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
* * *
The cops left them on a street corner near the stadium entrance.
“I shouldn’t think we deserved to be thrown out like that,” said Maggie.
“Maybe you shouldn’t think,” said Otis. “You’re the one got us thrown out.” He took her chin in his hand and moved her head side to side, studying her face.
“That eye’s gonna bruise up good. I better see you home.”
“Thanks. I’d invite you up, but it’s just a cheap room above a restaurant.”
“You’ll do better someday. And I wouldn’t come up anyways.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t mind being more than your kid sister.”
“That was dumb what you did back there,” said Otis. “I don’t need you to clobber folks for me. And I ain’t looking to tame you.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten me drunk.”
“That won’t happen again.”
“Still and all, this turned out to be more fun than I expected.” Maggie teased a loose tooth with her tongue and forefinger. “Could we do it again next Sunday?”
“Maybe that movie,” said Otis.
“And you’ll buy me dinner?”
“We’ll see. Come on.”
As they strolled across Bryant in the late afternoon sun, Maggie slipped her arm through his, her chin up. Otis didn’t make her stop. Just then, the stadium crowd began to cheer. It seemed some damn fool had finally done something right.
Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, Tough, Roi Fainéant Press, Guilty Crime Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern, and Outcast Press. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on Twitter @RussellThayer10
Jeff Brain is a retired public school teacher. You can find more of his art on his website or on Instagram.
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