fic: but my faith is in the math
[but my faith is in the math]
san francisco giants, brian wilson, barry zito. pg. zeets rocks a little john mayer, & i crib a lyric for the title. written for the 2009 picfor1000 challenge, only a month or so late. googledocs tells me this is 1000 words on the dot. picture here. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc.
Zito's on his knees, head bowed, bare toes twitching against the shiny hardwood. Brian watches for a count of five--no more, no less--before stepping away from the doorway and heading back down the hall. He closes the door to his room, just one of millions that Zito keeps ready year-round, and picks up his sticks. Quiet, just some pad work, trying not to distract Zito from his meditation.
*
Brian gets lost in some Disciple, the beat taking over and crashing through him. Zito knocks on the frame of his door. Brian stops drumming. Takes out his earbuds. Says, "Hey, su casa, man."
"Nah," Zito says, "Su espacio es su, and you gotta respect a man's su."
Brian laughs. Zito's just standing there, still halfway in the hall, beating his glove against his thigh. He's wearing sneakers and shorts. Brian's pretty sure he's tapping out the beat from Wild Thing.
"How," Brian says. He lets the rest of the question trail off.
Zito shrugs. "Long toss?" he asks. His glove percussive against his leg. Soft and muffled, like a song coming in from the next motel room over. "I feel like getting outside."
Brian leans over to grab his bag from its spot at the foot of his bed. "Just give me," he says.
"Hey," Zito says. Brian looks up, and Zito lifts his hands. Drops his glove and leans over to pick it up, does a weird little twist'n'shout move as he straightens up. "Dude, no rush. Just wanna catch the sun, you know?"
*
Zito takes the curves in the road like an old lady. Zito sings along with the radio; songs Brian hates and ones he doesn't recognize, all slightly off-key but full of feeling. Zito tries hard. Everything with maximum effort. Brian closes his eyes until he feels the car pull to a stop.
They get out of the car. Do a few perfunctory stretches. It's a perfect day for long toss: sun, sky, gentle breeze. Zito tosses the ball across the narrowest point of the canyon. Says, "Allman Brothers."
"Balance of Power." Brian plays around with the ball for a second, juggles and tries out his knuckleball grip. Holds the ball out toward Zito and says, "Wonder how far I could throw it like this."
"Better off trying to roll it across," Zito says. Brian mimes throwing the knuckler before airing the ball out normally. It feels good coming out of his hand. "And Coltrane."
Brian says, "Disciple." Zito laughs. Tosses the ball back. A through Z and back again, they throw until the sun begins to slip beneath the hills.
"Hey," Zito says, "Let's head back. Get some sushi and chill."
*
Zito is one person when he pitches, another with his guitar, but in his own house, licking ginger and wasabi from his fingers, it's like neither of those other people is actually real. Like Batman and Bruce Wayne, and the dude who plays them on TV. Brian pushes his empty across the table. His brain is obviously a little wobbly: too much beer and not enough sashimi will do that to a guy.
"My mom's dead," Zito says.
Brian passes him the last beer. Says, "Yeah."
"Have I ever told you my Billy Strahan theory?" Zito asks, but he doesn't seem to expect an answer. Just lifts his bottle in a phantom toast and brings it to his mouth. He doesn't put it back down until it's empty, grinning like he just struck Manny Ramirez out on three pitches.
Brian gets up. They need more beer. "Oh, tequila," Zito says, and Brian u-turns toward the bar.
Rows of top-shelf whiskeys, gins, tequilas: the kind of alcohol Brian mostly thinks are for show. He grabs a bottle from the back, playing the odds that that's where Zito hides the cheaper stuff. It clinks against the bottle in front of it.
Zito is using his chopsticks as drums, playing a song that only exists in his own head. Brian shakes his head, mutters, "Crazy." Zito doesn't look up.
*
"Billy, Billy." Zito's slurring a little--his words like a lazy BP fastball just floating out over the heart of the plate--and thumping his hand against something. "Billy, man, this season, you'll see."
Brian doesn't mean to eavesdrop. He's just thirsty. He freezes, fridge buzzing and too bright in the middle of the night, and Zito's voice carries. Brian grabs a bottle of water. Closes the fridge.
"--listening to me, Billy?" Zito asks. "You even awake? Man, seriously. Billy? Hey, no, fuck you." He doesn't even sound angry, just tired. Way too tired for this time of year.
Brian focuses on the humming of the appliances. White noise. Cold bottle of water against the back of his neck as he tries to navigate back to his room without making a sound.
He peers into the dining room as he passes. Zito's lying on the table. On his back, knees bent, left arm above his head and right hand holding his iPhone against his ear: the same position he sunbathes in, hours in his favorite chair, wearing those ridiculous 70s porn shorts of his.
"Billy," Zito says, "Hey, check it out." Brian thinks he should cough. Drop something. Zito starts to sing, "This will all make perfect sense someday--dude, I can do this all night--"
Brian doesn't interrupt. Doesn't say a word. He turns, walks away, back to his room.
*
Zito's passed out on the table: iPhone on the floor, shoes on a chair. His shirt's off, and Brian can tell where his muscles are more defined. He looks peaceful. Calm. Hand on his stomach, fingers just beneath the waistband of his boxers, mouth slack.
Brian picks the iPhone off the floor. It's still on; there's the steady drone of a voice talking just to talk when Brian holds it up to his ear, and Brian almost says something. Almost hangs up.
He puts it down next to Zito's head. Heads back to the kitchen to scramble some eggs.
*fin.
san francisco giants, brian wilson, barry zito. pg. zeets rocks a little john mayer, & i crib a lyric for the title. written for the 2009 picfor1000 challenge, only a month or so late. googledocs tells me this is 1000 words on the dot. picture here. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc.
Zito's on his knees, head bowed, bare toes twitching against the shiny hardwood. Brian watches for a count of five--no more, no less--before stepping away from the doorway and heading back down the hall. He closes the door to his room, just one of millions that Zito keeps ready year-round, and picks up his sticks. Quiet, just some pad work, trying not to distract Zito from his meditation.
*
Brian gets lost in some Disciple, the beat taking over and crashing through him. Zito knocks on the frame of his door. Brian stops drumming. Takes out his earbuds. Says, "Hey, su casa, man."
"Nah," Zito says, "Su espacio es su, and you gotta respect a man's su."
Brian laughs. Zito's just standing there, still halfway in the hall, beating his glove against his thigh. He's wearing sneakers and shorts. Brian's pretty sure he's tapping out the beat from Wild Thing.
"How," Brian says. He lets the rest of the question trail off.
Zito shrugs. "Long toss?" he asks. His glove percussive against his leg. Soft and muffled, like a song coming in from the next motel room over. "I feel like getting outside."
Brian leans over to grab his bag from its spot at the foot of his bed. "Just give me," he says.
"Hey," Zito says. Brian looks up, and Zito lifts his hands. Drops his glove and leans over to pick it up, does a weird little twist'n'shout move as he straightens up. "Dude, no rush. Just wanna catch the sun, you know?"
*
Zito takes the curves in the road like an old lady. Zito sings along with the radio; songs Brian hates and ones he doesn't recognize, all slightly off-key but full of feeling. Zito tries hard. Everything with maximum effort. Brian closes his eyes until he feels the car pull to a stop.
They get out of the car. Do a few perfunctory stretches. It's a perfect day for long toss: sun, sky, gentle breeze. Zito tosses the ball across the narrowest point of the canyon. Says, "Allman Brothers."
"Balance of Power." Brian plays around with the ball for a second, juggles and tries out his knuckleball grip. Holds the ball out toward Zito and says, "Wonder how far I could throw it like this."
"Better off trying to roll it across," Zito says. Brian mimes throwing the knuckler before airing the ball out normally. It feels good coming out of his hand. "And Coltrane."
Brian says, "Disciple." Zito laughs. Tosses the ball back. A through Z and back again, they throw until the sun begins to slip beneath the hills.
"Hey," Zito says, "Let's head back. Get some sushi and chill."
*
Zito is one person when he pitches, another with his guitar, but in his own house, licking ginger and wasabi from his fingers, it's like neither of those other people is actually real. Like Batman and Bruce Wayne, and the dude who plays them on TV. Brian pushes his empty across the table. His brain is obviously a little wobbly: too much beer and not enough sashimi will do that to a guy.
"My mom's dead," Zito says.
Brian passes him the last beer. Says, "Yeah."
"Have I ever told you my Billy Strahan theory?" Zito asks, but he doesn't seem to expect an answer. Just lifts his bottle in a phantom toast and brings it to his mouth. He doesn't put it back down until it's empty, grinning like he just struck Manny Ramirez out on three pitches.
Brian gets up. They need more beer. "Oh, tequila," Zito says, and Brian u-turns toward the bar.
Rows of top-shelf whiskeys, gins, tequilas: the kind of alcohol Brian mostly thinks are for show. He grabs a bottle from the back, playing the odds that that's where Zito hides the cheaper stuff. It clinks against the bottle in front of it.
Zito is using his chopsticks as drums, playing a song that only exists in his own head. Brian shakes his head, mutters, "Crazy." Zito doesn't look up.
*
"Billy, Billy." Zito's slurring a little--his words like a lazy BP fastball just floating out over the heart of the plate--and thumping his hand against something. "Billy, man, this season, you'll see."
Brian doesn't mean to eavesdrop. He's just thirsty. He freezes, fridge buzzing and too bright in the middle of the night, and Zito's voice carries. Brian grabs a bottle of water. Closes the fridge.
"--listening to me, Billy?" Zito asks. "You even awake? Man, seriously. Billy? Hey, no, fuck you." He doesn't even sound angry, just tired. Way too tired for this time of year.
Brian focuses on the humming of the appliances. White noise. Cold bottle of water against the back of his neck as he tries to navigate back to his room without making a sound.
He peers into the dining room as he passes. Zito's lying on the table. On his back, knees bent, left arm above his head and right hand holding his iPhone against his ear: the same position he sunbathes in, hours in his favorite chair, wearing those ridiculous 70s porn shorts of his.
"Billy," Zito says, "Hey, check it out." Brian thinks he should cough. Drop something. Zito starts to sing, "This will all make perfect sense someday--dude, I can do this all night--"
Brian doesn't interrupt. Doesn't say a word. He turns, walks away, back to his room.
*
Zito's passed out on the table: iPhone on the floor, shoes on a chair. His shirt's off, and Brian can tell where his muscles are more defined. He looks peaceful. Calm. Hand on his stomach, fingers just beneath the waistband of his boxers, mouth slack.
Brian picks the iPhone off the floor. It's still on; there's the steady drone of a voice talking just to talk when Brian holds it up to his ear, and Brian almost says something. Almost hangs up.
He puts it down next to Zito's head. Heads back to the kitchen to scramble some eggs.
*fin.