PART I:
Corpus Connie
Coco Gentilly was about to check “Lost and Found,” because her last good nerve was nowhere to be found. The phone calls today had been more unsettling than usual.
Five years ago, she’d figured that taking the job as front-desk receptionist for a Major League Baseball team, the Oakland A’s, would have been a fairly low-stress environment. Perfect gig for a single mom, raising a rowdy, sports-loving boy with ADD. And for the first few years, it had been. Especially with that pandemic.
But 2023 was different altogether. Oakland, the baseball-loving Oakland anyway, was presently an electric rodeo shitshow of hurt feelings, unwavering corporate greed and legislative pandering. Coco fielded dozens of irate, irrational and unhinged phone calls on the daily; everything from sobbing season-ticket holders and power-hungry wannabes to local celebs and politicians, all desperate to save the day, and maybe somehow fend off another Vegas invasion. After all, those no-good Nevadans had already seduced and stolen the town’s beloved Raiders a few years back. And now the A’s, less treasured but still the last kid left in town, were rumored to be abducted and desert-bound. Gertrude Stein’s infamous Oaklandian summary – “There is no there there” — was sadly becoming a sporting prophecy.
Truth be told, Coco hadn’t given two hollers about baseball when she landed this job, but over time, the underdog nature of the team and its fan base (plus repeated lobby viewings of the movie with that delicious white boy Brad Pitt), had worked its charms on her. As a bonus, her son Miles deemed the gear she brought home, in the team’s green and gold colors, “fresher than fresh.”
Even worse than the plaintive voices were the occasional wackadoo walk-ins. Like this one right now, a truly decrepit gentleman with piercing eyes and paper-thin skin approaching her desk in Heritage Hall, wafting distinct hints of mothballs, mildew and… were those diesel fumes?
Nonetheless, she resumed re-watching her favorite Instagram video of the day: a herd of wild goats on a county road, feasting on a buffet of Reddi-Whip cans disgorged from an overturned semi, all thoughtfully set to the tune of Kelis’ “Milkshake”. The oldster was only about fifteen feet away, but judging from his rickety gait, Coco figured she had an eternity of buffer before she’d need to plaster on that fake smile her bosses insisted upon.
However, BLAM.
The seriously senior citizen dropped a piece of gum or something on her desk. As she looked up, he blushed, while oddly clutching his prominent nose against his lean, weathered face. Coco scrunched her eyes and scanned the counter for the offending item. But the gum or whatever was nowhere to be seen. Weird. There was, however, a significant stench about. Old boy doffed his round straw hat, revealing where the vintage vapors emanated from. Although his dark suit, with the severe white collared shirt, no doubt also kicked up some serious funk.
“Apologies, young lady,” he said. “It’s been quite a journey.”
The old man sighed and looked around the lobby, taking in the World Series trophies, and did a double-take at the myriad pristine A’s jerseys prominently displayed on stands, bearing names like Eckersley, McGwire, Fingers, Jackson. The corners of his wide, friendly mouth tugged upward, and his pale seastorm eyes shone brightly under cloudy brows. “Do they launder the fellas’ pants on different days from the jerseys, I wonder? More cost efficient that way, I suppose?”
Coco, gaping at this dignified yet marginally deranged visitor, decided not to answer that one. As a teen, she’d been involuntarily enlisted to care for an elderly great uncle for a few months at the end of his life. Maybe because of those surreal conversations, she could sense when spoken words were not exactly intended for the outside world, and were more like stray dogs, italicized terriers, wandering from their unkempt yards.
Then the gentleman snapped out of his reverie, patted his lapel as if to reassure himself, and cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is… Might I speak to the owner, please?”
Oh lord here we go again. Coco suppressed a sigh and smiled tightly while calculating how best to send grandpa packing.
“Well sir, he’s a little busy right now,” she said. “What with running the team, the vigilante mobs and protestors and whatnot. Maybe you could leave a message for Mr. Fissure, or come back tomorrow?”
She figured politeness would probably work with this brittle beanpole, seeing as how he’d actually tipped his hat on the way in, like some Charlie Chaplin movie or something. And she’d also clocked that his posture was about 1000% better than Miles’s, so elder-berry was at least raised right.
“I’m afraid that won’t do, my dear. I was overly patient with Roy and Earle at the end, and that’s how we’re all in this fine mess today,” the man said. “No, no, from what I read in the morning edition of today’s paper, the sooner we speak, the better. Unless of course he’s out scouting the bush leagues somewhere, to shore up this lackluster roster of yours.”
The silvery senior winked, and Coco could’ve sworn that his nose shifted ever so slightly on his face when he did so. Like false teeth, only… a nose.
