Extra Innings
A tiny little something, because F asked so nicely.
She had found, on the drive over, a half-finished bag of sunflower seeds in her car, spilling over into the gully between passenger’s seat and emergency brake. She started to formulate a terse little tirade about the dusty, zebra striped hulls. Maybe she’d make him take it to the car wash a few blocks from her house, feed his dollars into the coin machine, use one of those barrel vacuums with the wild arms that made them look like old-fashioned TV robots. But the thought died before it went anywhere and she folded the pack over at a red light and stuck it in her coat pocket, licking her salty fingertips clean. “Field 3,” he’d said. “Field 3, Scully.”
He made it look easy and graceful, and she, well, she just hated not being able to do something. When she was a kid, she was big on stomping out of rooms when she couldn’t immediately master a new skill. “Everyone has different talents, Dana,” her mom would say with irritating calm.
They sat on a bench and he arced a seed through a single diamond lattice of the fence, hitting dead center. The fence, where, on Saturday afternoons, kids in too-big hats slung their fingers and chomped too-big wads of purple Big League Chew and barked out too-big, squinty-eyed orders to their teammates. Some of their ghostly cleat marks remained.
She wiggled her own seed to a trough at the tip of her tongue. He watched her expectantly, separating shell from casing with an incisor.
She made a sputtering sound and instead of flying through the air, the seed stuck to her bottom lip. She gave him one of her long-practiced, long-suffering looks, her straight-man-good-cop look, the slow burn. That, she was good at.
He reached out and peeled the seed off, his thumbnail scraping at her lip. He flicked it into the soft dirt.
“Practice makes perfect, Scully,” he said.
“Says who?”
“Oh, everybody’s saying it.”
He showed her how they used to spit as kids, the gummy thread of saliva spreading slowly across a single link in the fence. It was good luck if it didn’t break, he said. Worked better than a rally cap.
“That’s disgusting, Mulder.” She watched, fascinated.
“I know! Look at that!”
She tossed a handful of seeds at him like releasing confetti.
The rubbery paint of the home team's bench had layers like sedimentary rock. The top coat was green, but below it, there was tangerine, there was cadet blue, there was dull grey and bright red. Scully pressed at a pliant bubble in the paint while Mulder explained how to keep score, the numbers that stood for each position, tracing a backwards K in the dirt.
“We should go to a game someday,” he said, looking up from his makeshift scorecard almost nervously, as though she might laugh in his face.
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Yes.”
If only he knew, she thought, how much she liked making him smile. She didn't tell him.
He balanced the bat in his palm, its heft wiggling in the air, its skinny neck trembling like a circus act at the bottom. He kept his eyes fixed on her and she wasn’t sure whether he was showing off or if he just liked looking.
“Mulder.”
“I’m a trained professional, Scully.”
“I’m going to need to see some paperwork on that.” She snatched the bat out of his hand.
“Oooh, Scully,” he said, pursing his lips in a way she found maddening as she tapped the bat against the toe of her boot, the black leather gone vague and dusty. He tilted his head up to the licorice sky and breathed in.
After Mulder found a message in the paint, amongst the initials and profanities, that read “Donuts 4 All,” they started reading off the scratches, each trying to find something to one-up the other. When Scully found one that said “the govt is hiding it,” Mulder conceded defeat by digging into his pocket for his keys. On the back of the bench, he started scraping at the paint.
“Well, you’re just defacing things all over the place today, aren’t you?”
“You gonna turn me in, Scully?” he said without looking up. She poked his toe with the bat.
After a moment, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, dusting away curlicues of paint with a finger. Their initials sat pointy and side by side.
The night grew darker and cooler, the snap in the air reminding them it was still middling spring, no matter what the noon sun of Scully’s gorgeous day had argued. Finally, the outfield lights went out with a fuzzy pop, one by one, leaving only the watery glow of a few streetlamps in the parking lot.
“We should go,” Scully said, hunching her shoulders up to her ears, the collar of her coat edging into her throat.
“Not yet,” Mulder said, looking around like they were waiting for something that hadn’t yet arrived, like Linus in the pumpkin patch.
“I think that was our cue, Mulder.” She nodded with her chin at the lights that were no longer there.
“Oh, Scully. We’ve broken into highly secure government facilities and now you’re worried about being in a municipal park ten minutes after you’re allowed? You know what they say about rules, don’t you?”
“What if everyone were so cavalier with the rules, Mulder?”
“But we’re not everyone.” He leaned a warm shoulder against hers. “Are we?”
“Brrr,” she said. The grass was already stippled with dew.
“Here.”
He loped forward and started walking backwards in front of her. Wedged the not a bad piece of ash under his arm and grabbed her hands into the warm pocket of his own.
“Mulder.”
“Cold hands, warm heart,” he said.
He pulled them up to his mouth and huffed warm, humid breath.
“Mulder. Be careful. You’re going to run into something.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
She looked up at him, biting back a smile.
“You would? You wouldn’t. Would you?”
She moved all four of their hands and knocked into his nose with the tangle of fingers, stomped on one of his feet to prove her point, whatever it was. He grinned his rarest of grins against her knuckles and walked them, together, to their cars.
[season6, the unnatural, baseball-talk, short]
She had found, on the drive over, a half-finished bag of sunflower seeds in her car, spilling over into the gully between passenger’s seat and emergency brake. She started to formulate a terse little tirade about the dusty, zebra striped hulls. Maybe she’d make him take it to the car wash a few blocks from her house, feed his dollars into the coin machine, use one of those barrel vacuums with the wild arms that made them look like old-fashioned TV robots. But the thought died before it went anywhere and she folded the pack over at a red light and stuck it in her coat pocket, licking her salty fingertips clean. “Field 3,” he’d said. “Field 3, Scully.”
He made it look easy and graceful, and she, well, she just hated not being able to do something. When she was a kid, she was big on stomping out of rooms when she couldn’t immediately master a new skill. “Everyone has different talents, Dana,” her mom would say with irritating calm.
They sat on a bench and he arced a seed through a single diamond lattice of the fence, hitting dead center. The fence, where, on Saturday afternoons, kids in too-big hats slung their fingers and chomped too-big wads of purple Big League Chew and barked out too-big, squinty-eyed orders to their teammates. Some of their ghostly cleat marks remained.
She wiggled her own seed to a trough at the tip of her tongue. He watched her expectantly, separating shell from casing with an incisor.
She made a sputtering sound and instead of flying through the air, the seed stuck to her bottom lip. She gave him one of her long-practiced, long-suffering looks, her straight-man-good-cop look, the slow burn. That, she was good at.
He reached out and peeled the seed off, his thumbnail scraping at her lip. He flicked it into the soft dirt.
“Practice makes perfect, Scully,” he said.
“Says who?”
“Oh, everybody’s saying it.”
He showed her how they used to spit as kids, the gummy thread of saliva spreading slowly across a single link in the fence. It was good luck if it didn’t break, he said. Worked better than a rally cap.
“That’s disgusting, Mulder.” She watched, fascinated.
“I know! Look at that!”
She tossed a handful of seeds at him like releasing confetti.
The rubbery paint of the home team's bench had layers like sedimentary rock. The top coat was green, but below it, there was tangerine, there was cadet blue, there was dull grey and bright red. Scully pressed at a pliant bubble in the paint while Mulder explained how to keep score, the numbers that stood for each position, tracing a backwards K in the dirt.
“We should go to a game someday,” he said, looking up from his makeshift scorecard almost nervously, as though she might laugh in his face.
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Yes.”
If only he knew, she thought, how much she liked making him smile. She didn't tell him.
He balanced the bat in his palm, its heft wiggling in the air, its skinny neck trembling like a circus act at the bottom. He kept his eyes fixed on her and she wasn’t sure whether he was showing off or if he just liked looking.
“Mulder.”
“I’m a trained professional, Scully.”
“I’m going to need to see some paperwork on that.” She snatched the bat out of his hand.
“Oooh, Scully,” he said, pursing his lips in a way she found maddening as she tapped the bat against the toe of her boot, the black leather gone vague and dusty. He tilted his head up to the licorice sky and breathed in.
After Mulder found a message in the paint, amongst the initials and profanities, that read “Donuts 4 All,” they started reading off the scratches, each trying to find something to one-up the other. When Scully found one that said “the govt is hiding it,” Mulder conceded defeat by digging into his pocket for his keys. On the back of the bench, he started scraping at the paint.
“Well, you’re just defacing things all over the place today, aren’t you?”
“You gonna turn me in, Scully?” he said without looking up. She poked his toe with the bat.
After a moment, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, dusting away curlicues of paint with a finger. Their initials sat pointy and side by side.
The night grew darker and cooler, the snap in the air reminding them it was still middling spring, no matter what the noon sun of Scully’s gorgeous day had argued. Finally, the outfield lights went out with a fuzzy pop, one by one, leaving only the watery glow of a few streetlamps in the parking lot.
“We should go,” Scully said, hunching her shoulders up to her ears, the collar of her coat edging into her throat.
“Not yet,” Mulder said, looking around like they were waiting for something that hadn’t yet arrived, like Linus in the pumpkin patch.
“I think that was our cue, Mulder.” She nodded with her chin at the lights that were no longer there.
“Oh, Scully. We’ve broken into highly secure government facilities and now you’re worried about being in a municipal park ten minutes after you’re allowed? You know what they say about rules, don’t you?”
“What if everyone were so cavalier with the rules, Mulder?”
“But we’re not everyone.” He leaned a warm shoulder against hers. “Are we?”
“Brrr,” she said. The grass was already stippled with dew.
“Here.”
He loped forward and started walking backwards in front of her. Wedged the not a bad piece of ash under his arm and grabbed her hands into the warm pocket of his own.
“Mulder.”
“Cold hands, warm heart,” he said.
He pulled them up to his mouth and huffed warm, humid breath.
“Mulder. Be careful. You’re going to run into something.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
She looked up at him, biting back a smile.
“You would? You wouldn’t. Would you?”
She moved all four of their hands and knocked into his nose with the tangle of fingers, stomped on one of his feet to prove her point, whatever it was. He grinned his rarest of grins against her knuckles and walked them, together, to their cars.
[season6, the unnatural, baseball-talk, short]