Victor Gischler: Suicide Squeeze

Horace Folger didn’t have time for bullshit. He couldn’t take the evening off from the hardware store for just anything. But for his son, Teddy, Horace would make the time. He put his thick hand on Teddy’s shoulder, drew him close. He didn’t want to lose his son in the big crowd that had gathered to watch the movie people.

But those movie people didn’t seem to know their ass from a hole in the ground. The director guy kept yelling “cut” and everybody would stop what they were doing, then they’d go back and he’d yell “action” and everyone would do the exact same shit over again. The director seemed bothered by the big crowd, which was mostly men.

They all wanted to see the blonde.

And Jesus Christ what a blonde. She kept standing over this subway grille, then there’d be this whoosh of air, blowing her white dress up, and everyone got an eyeful. Whenever that dress went up, Horace’s knees turned watery. I’d never, ever cheat on Mildred, but if that blonde ever came knocking on my door late one night…

Horace nudged the guy next to him. “Hey, Mac, who’s the dish?”

“Are you pulling my leg?” said the guy. “That’s Marilyn Monroe. What, you been lost on a desert island or something?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Everyone was a goddamn wiseass.

Horace scanned the crowd, searched each face. And there he was, Joe DiMaggio. Now, here was a real man and a hell of a ballplayer. Word had flashed up and down the streets, into the little neighborhood a few blocks away where Horace ran his hardware store. DiMaggio! Horace didn’t have to think twice about it. He ran up to their apartment above the store, snatched up his boy Teddy, and took him down to get a look at the greatest ballplayer who’d ever lived.

And Horace was looking right at him. DiMaggio was less than a hundred yards away, standing with some people. Some working the lights, others with clipboards, microphones, everybody running around like decapitated chickens.

Except Jolting Joe. He made fists and stared at the blonde. He seemed pissed royal. Now Horace remembered. DiMaggio was married to the blonde. Ha. No wonder Joe was so bent out of shape. Horace wouldn’t want a crowd of sweaty gorillas gawking at his wife either.

“Come on, Teddy.” He hoisted his son up on his shoulders, pointed at the pissed ballplayer. “That’s Joe DiMaggio, son. That’s the greatest man in the sport of baseball.” In Horace’s mind, he might as well have been pointing at the president or the pope or Frank Sinatra.

Teddy didn’t say anything, just held on to Dad’s head, taking in the spectacle with big brown eyes.

The kid made Horace nervous. He almost never spoke, clung to his mother’s dress. Wouldn’t look strangers in the eye. Mildred just said he was quiet and shy. Horace didn’t care to hear that. His cousin Leo had been “quiet and shy” and now he cut women’s hair in the Village. So he brought Teddy to see what a man looked like.

The director yelled “action,” and Monroe ’s skirt flew up again. DiMaggio looked like he could spit nails.

Horace loved his son, but he worried like lots of fathers worried. All the kid seemed to do was read Superman comics. Teddy wouldn’t play with the ball and bat Horace had gotten him for Christmas. But he loved the Buck Rogers ray gun. The kid took it to bed at night, clutching it to his chest like a stuffed animal.

And then one day Horace came upstairs from the store and found Teddy on the floor in front of the big radio. He was arranging little rectangular cardboard cards with pictures on them. Horace had knelt next to his son, seen they were baseball cards. Baseball! Now, this was more like it. And right in the middle was a Joe DiMaggio card. Teddy had sorted them all by team, lining them up on the knotted rug. That weekend, Horace had taken the kid to a Yankees game. Teddy had been bored.

At least the kid wasn’t playing with dolls.

Horace watched the director throw up his hands and tell everyone to take five. Monroe went to her husband on the sidelines. It looked like they were having words. Horace edged closer, found himself in a milling crowd, some leaving, others trying to edge in and get a look at the starlet.

If Horace hurried, he could get the autograph. Maybe DiMaggio would shake Teddy’s hand. It might make all the difference, make some kind of important, lasting impression on the kid.

Somebody held up a hand, big guy, maybe a teamster, halted Horace in his tracks. “Not through here.”

“I wanted my son to meet-”

The teamster shook his head. “Trying to shoot a picture here, pal. Got to keep everyone back.”

Then the sailors. Three of them, reeking like a brewery, tried to surge past the line. The teamster caught one, grabbed at the others, yelled, “Jesus, Pauley, get over here. We got some wise guys.”

Another teamster the size of a battleship leapt in front of the sailors. They wrestled, the sailors cursing and throwing feeble punches, one calling for “Marilyn, baby.”

Horace saw his chance, slipped around the fracas, Teddy still bobbing on his shoulders and holding on to his hair.

Horace beelined for DiMaggio and Monroe. Monroe had turned away from the ballplayer, but Joe latched on to her wrist, pulled her back. Horace winced. It was obviously a private moment, and it wasn’t like Horace to stick his nose in where it didn’t belong. But he’d come too far to turn back. His son was going to meet Joe DiMaggio and that was all there was to it. He pressed on, got within five feet of the couple.

DiMaggio looked up abruptly, released Monroe, and put his hands in his pockets. Horace stood right in front of them now. He was nervous, but knew he couldn’t stand there all day staring at the man.

“Mr. DiMaggio, I’m a big fan.” He put out his hand, and DiMaggio shook it.

“Thanks,” DiMaggio said.

“My son too.” He pushed Teddy forward. “Shake the man’s hand, son.”

Teddy raised his hand like a zombie. He seemed to be in some kind of trance, eyes not quite focusing on DiMaggio.

DiMaggio managed to summon half a smile, took the kid’s hand. “How’re you doing, slugger?”

Teddy’s mouth hung open slightly. He pulled his hand back.

Horace touched his son on the shoulder. “Give it to him. Go on.”

In his other hand, Teddy held the Joe DiMaggio card. He handed it to the ballplayer, who looked at it and laughed.

“I remember sitting for this one.” DiMaggio patted his jacket pockets, looking for a pen.

Horace was ready. He handed DiMaggio a fountain pen, watched as DiMaggio signed his name right under his face. Horace realized he was far more excited about the whole situation than his son was. DiMaggio handed the card back to Teddy, who took it quietly. But he wasn’t looking at the ballplayer, seemed not even to realize he’d gotten the autograph.

Teddy stared with wide-eyed awe at Monroe. The movie lights lit her hair up like a blond halo. She seemed to glow-white skin, lips wet and red.

Monroe saw she was now the object of the child’s attention. Her face transformed, smile suddenly warm and gleaming. “Well, hello, honey. How’s my little man?”

Teddy stepped forward, a hazy, lopsided grin turning up the corners of his mouth. Inexplicably, he handed Monroe the Joe DiMaggio card.