fic: mean mr. mustard
[mean mr. mustard]
oakland athletics, san francisco giants. barry zito, billy beane. written for a certain housemate, title cribbed from the beatles. no beta, no cookie, no plot, no problem. written on nov. 8, 2009 & backdated for your convenience. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc.
i.
Zito thinks, “no,” and he doesn’t call. He doesn’t call again. He makes some juice--carrots and beets and apples and wheatgerm, a little bit of that greenish powder stuff--in the juicer Wilson left behind when he moved out. He really wants an omelet, but he’s pretty sure a new carton of eggs didn’t show up in his fridge in the 15 minute since he last checked.
That’d be pretty awesome, though, magically appearing eggs.
He’s dialing Beane’s number before he can think about it: the call goes straight to voicemail, do not pass go do not collect $200, and he tells Beane about the eggs. “And Timmy was picked up for pot, which I still think shouldn’t be illegal, but call me about the egg idea. Maybe, like, a delivery service? I don’t know. Oh, fuck, I love this song.”
He hangs up. Turns up the volume on his stereo. The fucking Beatles, man.
ii.
Beane doesn’t call back until after he’s done wheeling and dealing and all around being a bastard at the winter meetings. That’s cool, though. He’s an asshole when he’s trying to fuck Theo Epstein over.
(Plus, Zito totally had other things to do. He bought a car. Figured out a funky rhythm line to play along with “Blackbird.” Flew up to Washington to talk to Timmy about being a role model or whatever. Changed his mind at Sea-Tac and hopped a flight out to New York instead; he caught some amazing live music, enjoyed the vibe of the city, slept with this designer he met at the MoMA, flew home. Crashed for about 48 hours straight.)
When he does finally call back, Beane only laughs. And laughs. Says, “Least surprising drug bust since Keith Richards, kid.” Then he laughs some more, creepy and tired sounding, before hanging up. Zito shrugs. Puts his phone down on the counter and wanders outside for a swim.
Beane’s obviously insane. But Zito already knew that.
The sun’s high and heavy, and Zito pulls his t-shirt over his head. Drops it onto a deck chair. He steps out of his flip-flops, then unzips his shorts and pulls them down, thumbing his boxers with them.
He looks up at the sky--one or two clouds against the blue, an elephant and a ball of cotton--and smiles. LA, man, none of that east coast grey and snow. He walks the last couple of feet over to the edge of the pool. Dives right in.
*
He can’t find his pants, so he wanders back into the house naked. Drying himself with his t-shirt while dripping all over the hardwood. Juanita’s going to kill him. He should call a--whatever it is they call people who only clean hardwood floors. A floor person.
He walks into the kitchen. Drops the t-shirt into the sink and grabs his phone.
Beane answers on the second ring.
“I think a wild animal ate my shorts,” Zito says. “Shut up.”
“What, a bear escaped from the zoo and broke into your--”
“I was swimming,” Zito says, “And when I got out of the pool, my shorts were gone. I think maybe a coyote wandered onto the property while I was underwater or something.”
Beane hangs up on him. Which is totally uncalled for. Zito opens the fridge, pulls out a glass bottle of tangerine juice and takes a big swig. He rummages around for something to eat, finally discovering a mostly unbruised apple in the crisper.
He rinses it off. Takes a big bite. Apples, man, apples. He wanders back outside, lies down on the deck chair and finishes his snack. Closes his eyes and focuses on the warm air, bright sun, smell of chlorine and apples still clinging to his skin.
He tosses the core behind him. Rolls over onto his stomach.
*
He wakes up to an ice cube on his back--“Fuck, that’s”--and Beane’s insane laughter.
Zito’s mouth is dry. So dry that his “You sound like a cartoon villain” comes out in a stupid sounding croak. He coughs. Tries to clear his throat. Beane holds out a glass of water and Zito takes it.
“You’re welcome,” Beane says.
Zito finishes swallowing. Says, “I was gonna. Wait, how. You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Beane says. “I was in the neighborhood, and thought, hey, I should help my buddy Barry find his pants. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t even checked under the chair he’s sunbathing, oh, hey, what do you know.” He reaches under the chair. Pulls Zito’s shorts out and drops them on Zito’s ass.
Zito rolls over. The shorts slide back down onto the ground; neither he nor Beane reach out to catch them. Zito just stretches, arms over his head and toes pointed, and yawns.
Beane says, “”
“You love it,” Zito says. He sits up. Reaches up and grabs his shorts, tosses them onto the chair where he’ll be able to find them later. He stands. When he walks back into the house, Beane follows.
Zito doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to.
iii.
Zito’s juggling his car keys, a chai, two bags of CDs, and his phone. He manages to put the cup on the roof of his car, bags on the ground; he’s answering the phone as he presses the unlock button on his keychain. It’s Beane. He’s yelling something at his assistant, something about sinkerballers and third base defense, and Zito’s pretty sure some of those curse words he’s using don’t actually exist.
“Billy,” Zito says, “Billy.” Beane keeps talking about zones and soft hands and feet, and Zito tosses his bags into the passenger seat. Picks up his chai and gets into the car. “Hey,” he says, “do you need me here for this or you wanna call back when you’re done jerking off?”
“Fuck,” Beane says.
Zito laughs. This time he hangs up first.
oakland athletics, san francisco giants. barry zito, billy beane. written for a certain housemate, title cribbed from the beatles. no beta, no cookie, no plot, no problem. written on nov. 8, 2009 & backdated for your convenience. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc.
i.
Zito thinks, “no,” and he doesn’t call. He doesn’t call again. He makes some juice--carrots and beets and apples and wheatgerm, a little bit of that greenish powder stuff--in the juicer Wilson left behind when he moved out. He really wants an omelet, but he’s pretty sure a new carton of eggs didn’t show up in his fridge in the 15 minute since he last checked.
That’d be pretty awesome, though, magically appearing eggs.
He’s dialing Beane’s number before he can think about it: the call goes straight to voicemail, do not pass go do not collect $200, and he tells Beane about the eggs. “And Timmy was picked up for pot, which I still think shouldn’t be illegal, but call me about the egg idea. Maybe, like, a delivery service? I don’t know. Oh, fuck, I love this song.”
He hangs up. Turns up the volume on his stereo. The fucking Beatles, man.
ii.
Beane doesn’t call back until after he’s done wheeling and dealing and all around being a bastard at the winter meetings. That’s cool, though. He’s an asshole when he’s trying to fuck Theo Epstein over.
(Plus, Zito totally had other things to do. He bought a car. Figured out a funky rhythm line to play along with “Blackbird.” Flew up to Washington to talk to Timmy about being a role model or whatever. Changed his mind at Sea-Tac and hopped a flight out to New York instead; he caught some amazing live music, enjoyed the vibe of the city, slept with this designer he met at the MoMA, flew home. Crashed for about 48 hours straight.)
When he does finally call back, Beane only laughs. And laughs. Says, “Least surprising drug bust since Keith Richards, kid.” Then he laughs some more, creepy and tired sounding, before hanging up. Zito shrugs. Puts his phone down on the counter and wanders outside for a swim.
Beane’s obviously insane. But Zito already knew that.
The sun’s high and heavy, and Zito pulls his t-shirt over his head. Drops it onto a deck chair. He steps out of his flip-flops, then unzips his shorts and pulls them down, thumbing his boxers with them.
He looks up at the sky--one or two clouds against the blue, an elephant and a ball of cotton--and smiles. LA, man, none of that east coast grey and snow. He walks the last couple of feet over to the edge of the pool. Dives right in.
*
He can’t find his pants, so he wanders back into the house naked. Drying himself with his t-shirt while dripping all over the hardwood. Juanita’s going to kill him. He should call a--whatever it is they call people who only clean hardwood floors. A floor person.
He walks into the kitchen. Drops the t-shirt into the sink and grabs his phone.
Beane answers on the second ring.
“I think a wild animal ate my shorts,” Zito says. “Shut up.”
“What, a bear escaped from the zoo and broke into your--”
“I was swimming,” Zito says, “And when I got out of the pool, my shorts were gone. I think maybe a coyote wandered onto the property while I was underwater or something.”
Beane hangs up on him. Which is totally uncalled for. Zito opens the fridge, pulls out a glass bottle of tangerine juice and takes a big swig. He rummages around for something to eat, finally discovering a mostly unbruised apple in the crisper.
He rinses it off. Takes a big bite. Apples, man, apples. He wanders back outside, lies down on the deck chair and finishes his snack. Closes his eyes and focuses on the warm air, bright sun, smell of chlorine and apples still clinging to his skin.
He tosses the core behind him. Rolls over onto his stomach.
*
He wakes up to an ice cube on his back--“Fuck, that’s”--and Beane’s insane laughter.
Zito’s mouth is dry. So dry that his “You sound like a cartoon villain” comes out in a stupid sounding croak. He coughs. Tries to clear his throat. Beane holds out a glass of water and Zito takes it.
“You’re welcome,” Beane says.
Zito finishes swallowing. Says, “I was gonna. Wait, how. You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Beane says. “I was in the neighborhood, and thought, hey, I should help my buddy Barry find his pants. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t even checked under the chair he’s sunbathing, oh, hey, what do you know.” He reaches under the chair. Pulls Zito’s shorts out and drops them on Zito’s ass.
Zito rolls over. The shorts slide back down onto the ground; neither he nor Beane reach out to catch them. Zito just stretches, arms over his head and toes pointed, and yawns.
Beane says, “”
“You love it,” Zito says. He sits up. Reaches up and grabs his shorts, tosses them onto the chair where he’ll be able to find them later. He stands. When he walks back into the house, Beane follows.
Zito doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to.
iii.
Zito’s juggling his car keys, a chai, two bags of CDs, and his phone. He manages to put the cup on the roof of his car, bags on the ground; he’s answering the phone as he presses the unlock button on his keychain. It’s Beane. He’s yelling something at his assistant, something about sinkerballers and third base defense, and Zito’s pretty sure some of those curse words he’s using don’t actually exist.
“Billy,” Zito says, “Billy.” Beane keeps talking about zones and soft hands and feet, and Zito tosses his bags into the passenger seat. Picks up his chai and gets into the car. “Hey,” he says, “do you need me here for this or you wanna call back when you’re done jerking off?”
“Fuck,” Beane says.
Zito laughs. This time he hangs up first.