On The Road Again Part 3
Day One. The plan is implemented.
We got into Spokane at about nine A.M. and immediately checked into the nearest motel we could find, just off I-90. Al and I planned to take a quick shower, get a bite to eat, and then find a strip club or two.
Our room had the standard arrangement; two queen-sized beds, a TV, lots of towels and an ugly brown-red shag carpet that I'm sure had been chosen specifically to hide stains. I lay down on the bed nearest the TV, my shoes still on my feet, and I said, "I'm going to watch TV for a while. I'm still a little wired from the road."
Al said, "Suit yourself," and he stretched out for a nap.
I found ESPN News and I settled down to catch up on the ball scores.
The next thing I knew, Al was nudging me awake. He'd showered and shaved, and he was wearing what looked like brand new black slacks, leather patent shoes and a red-and-white striped button down shirt. He said, "I'm hungry and horny. Let's go."
I looked at the clock. It was after seven P.M. While I'd slept, Al had taken a nap, showered, gotten lunch, and gone shopping for new clothes. He'd even managed to get the keys to the Jeep out of my pocket without awaking me. Now, he was ready for a night on the town.
I showered and shaved in record time. I didn't have any new clothes, but I made do with some khaki pants and a sharp-looking black pullover shirt.
First, we walked over to one of the local steakhouses, within walking distance of the motel. We both had thick sixteen-ounce steaks with french fries and lots of beer. Not the domestic crap. Good beer. I drank Stella Artois and Al had some Newcastle Brown Ale. I thought it was too heavy for the red meat we were eating, but it was Al's favorite. Who was I to argue?
It was a nice enough-looking place, with lots of TVs set up to watch the Mariners play the Red Sox. Since it was the middle of July, there were no other sports to watch. I'm okay with baseball, but I'm more partial to hockey and football.
Al, however, was a baseball freak. He'd gotten into the Reds' farm system back in the early eighties, and had gotten all the way up to their triple-A franchise in Denver, back before the city got the expansion Rockies. Back then, they called themselves the Bears. Al spent the last month of the 1984 season in Denver, riding the bench and never getting into a game. At the end of the season he was cut, but Al decided to hang around the Mile High City for a while. That's when I met him.
Anyway, the point is Al was really getting into the game. He sat right underneath one of the big-screen TVs, muttering to himself with every pitch. It wasn't so much a play-by-play he was giving, as it was instructions to the Mariners manager.
"Too far back, guy! Your men are too far back! Bring them up! This guy's a contact hitter, he's putting it on the ground! Pitch him high and in! Look where his bat is! High and in, guy!" The Seattle manager, naturally, paid no attention to Al's advice, so when the pitcher threw a low fastball right down the middle of the plate, the Red Sox batter knocked it right down the third base line and he legged out a single, barely beating the throw to first. Al let out a triumphant whoop.
"Told ya to bring them in, you son of a bitch," he yelled. "This next guy's gonna drive him home! The pitcher's gonna try a curveball next and this guy'll put it into right field."
Sure enough, the batter caught the pitch and drove it into the right field corner. The Sox runner on first made it all the way home standing up.
Al looked like he'd gotten a winning lottery ticket.
"Do you follow the game that closely," I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you chart the pitches and keep track of how each batter does against left-handed pitchers in the middle innings and all that shit?"
Al laughed. "Hell no. I don't have time to watch much baseball these days. But after a while, you see the patterns. From the way the batter holds his bat, you can tell what kind of swing he has. If you know what kind of swing he's got, you know what his favorite pitches to hit are. So that tells you what kind of throws the pitcher doesn't want to toss to him. It's a lot like chess. You know how if you've seen enough games, you see the patterns? So if the black queen's bishop is on the f7 square and the queen's pawn is on d5 you know it was a queen's gambit opening? Same thing. Same thing with life, man. When you know the pattterns, it's all an open book."
We finished our dinner, tipped the waitress, and tipped the bartender, too. Al and I both used to work behind the bar ourselves, so we know the value of a good tip. We also asked the question most bartenders in any town know the answer to. "Where's a good strip club, man?"
He knew right away. "Get on Sprague, just north of I-90. All the good clubs are on Sprague."
"Where are the best clubs?"
"My favorite is The Dollhouse. On west Sprague. All the college girls go there to dance. All young and athletic. You get them from Gonzaga, Eastern Washington, Wash State, all of them, man."
That earned the guy another five dollars on his tip. We went right to the Dollhouse.
It was an upscale-looking club. The doorman was dressed in a tuxedo. Valet parking. Men in business suits were going inside. Al's and my casual wardrobes got the once-over from the guy taking our money, but he didn't say we couldn't come in.
And just like that, we were in.
TO BE CONTINUED.
We got into Spokane at about nine A.M. and immediately checked into the nearest motel we could find, just off I-90. Al and I planned to take a quick shower, get a bite to eat, and then find a strip club or two.
Our room had the standard arrangement; two queen-sized beds, a TV, lots of towels and an ugly brown-red shag carpet that I'm sure had been chosen specifically to hide stains. I lay down on the bed nearest the TV, my shoes still on my feet, and I said, "I'm going to watch TV for a while. I'm still a little wired from the road."
Al said, "Suit yourself," and he stretched out for a nap.
I found ESPN News and I settled down to catch up on the ball scores.
The next thing I knew, Al was nudging me awake. He'd showered and shaved, and he was wearing what looked like brand new black slacks, leather patent shoes and a red-and-white striped button down shirt. He said, "I'm hungry and horny. Let's go."
I looked at the clock. It was after seven P.M. While I'd slept, Al had taken a nap, showered, gotten lunch, and gone shopping for new clothes. He'd even managed to get the keys to the Jeep out of my pocket without awaking me. Now, he was ready for a night on the town.
I showered and shaved in record time. I didn't have any new clothes, but I made do with some khaki pants and a sharp-looking black pullover shirt.
First, we walked over to one of the local steakhouses, within walking distance of the motel. We both had thick sixteen-ounce steaks with french fries and lots of beer. Not the domestic crap. Good beer. I drank Stella Artois and Al had some Newcastle Brown Ale. I thought it was too heavy for the red meat we were eating, but it was Al's favorite. Who was I to argue?
It was a nice enough-looking place, with lots of TVs set up to watch the Mariners play the Red Sox. Since it was the middle of July, there were no other sports to watch. I'm okay with baseball, but I'm more partial to hockey and football.
Al, however, was a baseball freak. He'd gotten into the Reds' farm system back in the early eighties, and had gotten all the way up to their triple-A franchise in Denver, back before the city got the expansion Rockies. Back then, they called themselves the Bears. Al spent the last month of the 1984 season in Denver, riding the bench and never getting into a game. At the end of the season he was cut, but Al decided to hang around the Mile High City for a while. That's when I met him.
Anyway, the point is Al was really getting into the game. He sat right underneath one of the big-screen TVs, muttering to himself with every pitch. It wasn't so much a play-by-play he was giving, as it was instructions to the Mariners manager.
"Too far back, guy! Your men are too far back! Bring them up! This guy's a contact hitter, he's putting it on the ground! Pitch him high and in! Look where his bat is! High and in, guy!" The Seattle manager, naturally, paid no attention to Al's advice, so when the pitcher threw a low fastball right down the middle of the plate, the Red Sox batter knocked it right down the third base line and he legged out a single, barely beating the throw to first. Al let out a triumphant whoop.
"Told ya to bring them in, you son of a bitch," he yelled. "This next guy's gonna drive him home! The pitcher's gonna try a curveball next and this guy'll put it into right field."
Sure enough, the batter caught the pitch and drove it into the right field corner. The Sox runner on first made it all the way home standing up.
Al looked like he'd gotten a winning lottery ticket.
"Do you follow the game that closely," I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you chart the pitches and keep track of how each batter does against left-handed pitchers in the middle innings and all that shit?"
Al laughed. "Hell no. I don't have time to watch much baseball these days. But after a while, you see the patterns. From the way the batter holds his bat, you can tell what kind of swing he has. If you know what kind of swing he's got, you know what his favorite pitches to hit are. So that tells you what kind of throws the pitcher doesn't want to toss to him. It's a lot like chess. You know how if you've seen enough games, you see the patterns? So if the black queen's bishop is on the f7 square and the queen's pawn is on d5 you know it was a queen's gambit opening? Same thing. Same thing with life, man. When you know the pattterns, it's all an open book."
We finished our dinner, tipped the waitress, and tipped the bartender, too. Al and I both used to work behind the bar ourselves, so we know the value of a good tip. We also asked the question most bartenders in any town know the answer to. "Where's a good strip club, man?"
He knew right away. "Get on Sprague, just north of I-90. All the good clubs are on Sprague."
"Where are the best clubs?"
"My favorite is The Dollhouse. On west Sprague. All the college girls go there to dance. All young and athletic. You get them from Gonzaga, Eastern Washington, Wash State, all of them, man."
That earned the guy another five dollars on his tip. We went right to the Dollhouse.
It was an upscale-looking club. The doorman was dressed in a tuxedo. Valet parking. Men in business suits were going inside. Al's and my casual wardrobes got the once-over from the guy taking our money, but he didn't say we couldn't come in.
And just like that, we were in.
TO BE CONTINUED.
posted by JT Benjamin at 6:15 PM
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