Wrigley Concourse

Patrick Somerville

Down in line in the belly
of the old stadium, waiting for a
pretzel with spiced cheese, it was the fifth inning on a June evening,
a lull, and I saw a young man, overweight,
eyes glazed with hope and beer,
shirt too tight like he thought maybe the
fat might be construed as muscle from a miracle
angle, watch a girl in another line and lean
to his friend and I heard him
say, “I’m actually just going to do it,” and then he
turned his hat around and then he
walked across the concrete to her and then he
started to talk to her and I thought: no, friend,
simple, I have seen love die early like this before:
she is too beautiful for you.

Also, behind me, two friends, one phone rang
and he answered with a boorish “What’s up?” so
close to my neck I felt the wet letters hit my skin. He
talked and closed with “Bye, baby,” and his friend said, cold and grim,
“I know you,” and he said, “What does that mean, Yoda?” and
his friend said, “Why you always be so up on all of them? You
sound corny,” and he said, “It’s always some shit with you. Don’t
ruin my night.” “Man, whatever,” the other said. “Okay, yeah. Whatever.”
The phone rang and again he answered and this time he said, “You
already got it for us, too?” like a happy kid and I felt them depart behind
me like the wind, together.

I left early in the eighth to get home and I missed a
Cubs fan charge the mound and a
comeback and
a comeback, so much, just
so I would not be something. Instead I rode the Brown
Line with tired people in the dark who had not been watching baseball.