Hob Broun - Odditorium

“We heard you,” Heidi said, heartened by the physical closeness of the others and by Tildy’s cool palm behind her neck. “Plain as the teats on a sow.”

Ignoring her, Sparn kept edging away. He pressed his fingertips together, trying to appear casual but deliberate. “What I’m trying to get across to you, it’s not a physical thing. It’s an emotional thing. It’s not about moving from first to third on a single. It’s about moving your audience, getting them excited and getting them involved. Moving them. Making them care.”

Several sets of eyes rolled toward the ceiling. With leering ceremony, That’s-Mary rolled two wads of a half-eaten chocolate cupcake and used them to plug her ears.

“Drama. Suspense. That’s what’s missing. Because … because we think we’re unbeatable. Yes, that’s it! Enterprise. Imagination. Emotions. Theatrics. Just as tangible as that welt on Tildy’s leg. Let me tell you something. I review the statistics every day and you know what I see? I see dullness. That’s right. I see scores like four, zero; five, zero; six, one. Now where the hell is the drama in that? Dull. Cut and dried.”

Sparn entered Flora’s corner as his speech reached its crescendo. He took her arm, the million-dollar arm, light and whippy, that could fire a fat, rubber-covered sphere at close to ninety miles an hour, and lifted it over his head.

“The greatest,” he said solemnly. “Maybe the greatest ever. A young woman who has perfected her craft to such a fine degree that you and I, we can’t even understand it. Another realm altogether.” He let the arm drop and it bounced on Flora’s hip as though she were asleep. “But how do people, ordinary people, feel about that kind of excellence? Think about it. If I announced that tomorrow afternoon at the Knights of Columbus Hall there would be an exhibition by the world’s best diamond cutter, how many tickets do you suppose I would sell? Excellence has its drawbacks. It can really put people off.” He laid his hand on Flora’s cheek. “What you’ve got to do, honey, is let up just a little bit. Let those bozos on the other side score some runs once in a while.”

She flicked away Sparn’s damp saurian claw and gazed at him with contempt, as though he had asked her to prepare and consume a melted goat turd sandwich before a gathering of cub scouts. This arrogant, yammering little troll wanted her to intentionally and bloodlessly betray her talent, her sense of professionalism and her love for Molly Joan — because for Flora all these things were bound inextricably together. If it came down to that, she would much rather eat the sandwich.

There followed a long, uncomfortable pause, embroidered by the sound of M.J. chomping french fries. Finally, when Flora had it all worked out in her mind, she tightened the belt of her robe, walked halfway to the door, turned.

“See you at tomorrow’s game, Mr. Sparn. Be there.”

Carrying a large root beer in which the ice had melted, M.J. followed. Then, without a word or glance to one another, the Cougarettes stood and trooped out of the room past a thunderstruck Peter Sparn with the metered gait of a half-time band.

Sparn’s face grew pink, as though he’d been slapped. When he had found his voice, he moved with such speed that Vinnie cringed as he came toward him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, boy. When are you going to learn how to control these girls?”

While his father raved on, Vinnie turned little by little to wax.

Tildy was summoned the next morning to a private breakfast with Sparn at the Magnolia Diner. They sat at a sun-soaked booth next to a window box of plastic ivy. It was after nine o’clock and they were the only customers in the place.

“What’ll you have?”

“A large glass of water. Plenty of ice.” Tildy adjusted her dark glasses.

“You can do better than that. Have a little something with me, I hate to eat alone.”

“I don’t like breakfast, I never have.”

“You gotta eat to live. Were you always this scrawny?”

“More or less.”

Sparn ordered pork chops, eggs and grits. He did tricks with the flatware, flirted with the waitress and generally comported himself like a jolly Uncle Ned. Tildy had known the man for some years and had found little in him to admire. But he had a certain resilience.

“So you girls partied pretty late last night, huh? You all gonna turn into zombies?”

“Coffeyville, two o’clock. We’ll be ready.”

Counting under his breath, Sparn dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “You sure you won’t have something with me? I suppose you’re sick to here with this diner food.”

“It’s not so bad. I just always ask for extra gravy.”

Sparn slid abruptly forward and pressed her hand. “Where is your life now, Tildy? Are you happy with it?”

Tildy was so surprised she gave a straight answer. “I don’t know.”

Sparn was making her nervous. Definitely. He has this way of ambushing people, she thought; and recalled an afternoon they’d spent together a few years ago, the day he’d asked her to become a Cougarette.

She was working for Sparn on the topless go-go circuit at the time, and making a fair piece of change. Bare tits were still a big item back then and a bar owner could get five or six bucks for a pitcher of beer from anyone who wanted to see them in action. Tildy was a small, lean, woman, in marked contrast to most of the pneumatic dollies she worked with, but she moved like a snake and the rubes would line up to stuff tips in her G-string. Older men in particular seemed to dig her girl-child body. She was billed as the Ragin’ Cajun, Sparn’s idea. Tildy was one of his favorites.

He called her one Sunday and invited her to a cruise party on the Saint John’s River. They were already out in the channel by the time Tildy discovered they were the only two people aboard the Big Peter .

“Look, Pete, if this is one of those fuck-or-swim deals, I’m not doing either one.”

Sparn was deeply offended. A soft breeze, sun on the water and two friends sitting down for some pleasant conversation. Where was the harm in that?

“I’m not sure I can buy that.”

“But I like talking to you, kid. You got smarts. I’m still trying to figure you out.” He poured her a pineapple daiquiri. “Yeah, Tildy Soileau is a very strange item, you know that.”

“I’ve heard it before, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know, you’re the only girl I ever sent out didn’t try a little hooking on the side. Hell, you’re the only one still using pasties.”

“What can I tell you, Pete. It’s the way I was brought up.”

“No kidding? How’d you get in this business anyway?”

“Just luck.”

They anchored in calm water off of Fort Caroline and Sparn went swimming. He did the breaststroke and kept his hat on. Then, with fresh daiquiris, they perched astern on swivel chairs and discussed boating safety, the best places to eat crab and the case of a local attorney on trial for murdering his wife with a nine-iron. Tildy began to relax after Sparn applied suntan oil to himself without asking for help. It was after turkey salad sandwiches and another daiquiri that Pete sprang the ambush.

“You ever play baseball when you were a kid?”

“Who remembers?”

Sparn then ran down the entire Cougarettes scheme to her, talking so fast and excitedly that he spilled his drink. He scurried inside, returned with a sketch pad and showed her the green and gold uniforms he’d designed.

“You’re all fired up over this, aren’t you, Pete?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Did I forget to mention that you’re going to be my shortstop?”

“Get out of here. I can’t play baseball. I don’t even know who won the World Series last year.”