The traffic was hell. There were miles of headlights and bumpers in front of us, all colorless in the mild time before getting home and going to bed. Yes, I was annoyed at being in the traffic but neither, my husband Jake, nor I could remember where we parked the car, so time was lost to the fumbling between us. Of course, I was the one to lead the pack, as Jake was not really looking, his twin girls growing more tired with every step. During the time we searched for the car, we were reminiscent of the path of cars before us, walking in a line following each other around, like the trained elephants in the circus show we’d just seen.

I could see Jake lost in his thoughts during the monotonous looking in the dark fields beyond the circus tents. He was walking mindlessly and looking side to side at the many rows of cars while twitching and tensely using obvious gestures a pitcher would use between pitches. There I was trying to choose another row to look down with Jake directly behind me the girls whining behind him. Still I had to smile to myself while watching him wet his fingertips with his tongue, blow into his cupped hand, then bend over and do a stretch for his back by reaching for the ground, standing up and shaking, then continuing his looking for the car.

He was lost to the days when he played pitcher for the Kensington Car Boys. I knew in his mind, he was setting himself up for a big wind-up to the next batter and that he could hear the crowd and felt their eyes on him as he went through his routine gestures. His audience held their breath until they saw that ball spinning down the line, knee-high until it curved away, and hit into the catcher’s mitt. Then their collective eyes and exhaled breath made it all worthwhile. Because they roared, as he walked back to the dugout, humbly looking down at the ground, so not to step on the chalk line marking the road to first base, they really cheered.

Most times, he would look down, but I knew he couldn’t resist, so I’d stand and whistle with my fingers in my mouth, as loud as I could, all the time looking directly at him. Then it would happen. He would grab a quick look at me from under his grimy baseball cap bill, his blue eyes jetting a soft look that would send me into louder thrills. I loved the way he walked, sauntered really, his hips swaying unevenly as he made his way to the dug-out, my head would swirl, my body swayed, too, under so much love for him at that moment.

I guess I was as lost to the memories of the old Car Boys as he was while we walked around the dirt lot looking for the car. The dried “sticker-weeds” and uneven fields made the looking frustrating and I knew that if we were to get out of here tonight, Jake’s following me like a shadow, would have to end. Jokingly, I got out my cell phone and called him, saying, “shall we split-up and look,” just to get him back down to Earth.

I don’t blame him for wandering back to those days. They were good days. He worked for his father at the transmission shop, Car Boys Transmissions, in the afternoon. He was in college, and pitching for his father’s business sponsored, adult league baseball team a couple of evenings per week. I watched him play many times because he was so electric when he stood on the hill. Everyone around town knew he was pitching, it was as common as an everyday, “Hello, how are you?”

Off Jake wandered away in the dark to look for our dark colored van. I knew I was going around in circles when the flickering streetlight from the parkway kept coming back into sight. I was angry and tired when I saw it again. I stopped to pick “sticker-weeds” out of my socks when I realized Jake was behind me with his cell phone in hand, calling me. I answered the phone, distinctly not in the mood, though I played along anyway, “yes,” I said turning to meet Jake’s gaze as he smiled, and pointed at the car.

“Look at that,” he said.
“You look at it,” I jokingly replied and gladly flipped down the cell phone.

The Kensington Car Boys: Part II – Tomorrow!