'Yeah, who can say?' Shoeless thought, squinching his nose as if he smelled a two-day old opened tuna can in the garbage. 'Who can say where the fuck anything goes?'
There was nothing he could do about the music, though. This wasn't his office. And if it helped whoever it was that owned this place get through their work day, so be it. He'd just have to suffer through it like he'd suffered through most everything he'd dealt with since taking over the Robins. The latest being the BBA Media Guide projecting his new organization accumulating 100 losses for 2063.
The idea of losing 100 games was worse than rotting tuna.
It was worse than Enya.
Through the multi-layered tracks and other-worldly vocals and the smell of the Spencer Gifts' incense burning on the side table, a woman, or what sounded like a woman, anyway, as he'd learned from his days in Mumbai not to assume anything in an establishment like this, said from behind a three panel divider, "Please disrobe and lie on your belly on the table."
The voice was more soft than he'd hoped, but he did as he was told. The 100-loss projection had tightened muscles in his neck and back Shoeless was certain weren't there just hours before. Because of this, he would have preferred a sausage-fingered, ex-Olympic female weightlifter from the long-defunct East Germany to knead and pulverize his aches back into non-existence. But in the end, it didn't matter to him. Nothing seemed to matter in Brooklyn. Wins. Losses. Players. Coaches. No one cared. Only time mattered here, proven by all the rushing around everyone was doing.
Where the day flows? Only time.
"What's that?" The woman said as she came out from behind the divider. "Were you say something?"
"No. Sorry. Nothing. Just talking to myself."
The masseuse was beautiful (this is the Brewster universe, after all, and what fun is it to write about Your Mother all the time). She wore a slim-fitting summer dress that relaxed and flowed at the bottom and sported more beaded necklaces, charms, and bracelets than a Claire's in a Midwest mall. But it was her hair that stole the show. Long. Full. A tad messy in all the right ways. And it was such a dark shade of black it seemed to dim the lights around her, stealing any brilliance they gave off and keeping it for itself.
"Thought I heard you say something about the Robins." Her voice plucked his attention back to the present and out of the fantasy his ever-adolescent mind was in the process of conjuring. "I don't know why I keep cheering for that team, especially now."
"Especially now? Why's that?"
"Oh, you must not follow them too close, if that's what you were whispering about, anyway. That idiot from the Popes used whatever voodoo he'd been conjuring up over in Sacramento and convinced the brass of the Robins to give him the GM job."
"I heard the Robins weren't doing too hot," Shoeless said, curious how she knew so much about him but didn't recognize him. "Maybe he'll do some good. Plus, maybe he's a looker."
She laughed. "A looker? Have you seen any of those BBA GMs? They're all the same -- buck-toothed cronies riding the waves of their daddy's old money. If they're not bald, they're fat. If they're neither of those, their personalities are as exciting as dogshit left on a neighbor's lawn. I'm pretty sure Shoeless is all of those things."
"Maybe," Shoeless said, thinking about his slowly receding hairline and the pudge pooling out from his love handles as the woman's hands methodically worked the massage oil onto his back. "Didn't he win a bunch of Pacific pennants and even a Monty with the M'opes, though?"
"That wasn't him. Carlos .. ," she made the sign of the cross, ".. Camacho did that somehow. Or maybe that green-eyed woman. Shoeless was just a pawn, a nitwit doing their bidding. He wouldn't know baseball if a liner popped him in the mouth."
And who can say when the day sleeps
if the night keeps all your heart?
Shoeless knew it was a mistake coming here. The music was bad enough, but if he wanted to hear how terrible of a GM he was, he'd just read the BBA forums.
"But I was reading that some prognosticator was saying the Robins were going to lose 100 games this season," he said, trying to turn the subject back to the team. "The guys I'm .. Shoeless is bringing in seem to be different than the guys from last season. Pitchers who keep balls in the park and a defense who can make outs out of them."
Shoeless wriggled as the pressure she used on his back went up about four notches.
"Just a bunch of minor league wannabes with no right playing on a BBA field. We could lose 120 and I wouldn't be surprised."
He was starting to think her black hair wasn't so attractive. "120?"
"None of it matters," she continued. "Not even the press are bored enough to take in a game in Cobble Hill. They're going to need to bus folks from the Alzheimers home to get any fans. Them and maybe from the school of the deaf and blind."
Shoeless tried to convince himself the laugh she made after saying that was more of a cackle than something beautiful. Something he'd want to keep hearing.
"Do you mind if we stop talking for a bit?" He asked. "I'm having a hard time relaxing."
"Not a problem. It's your time."
Who knows? Only time.
Who knows? Only time.
