Teddy Wayne - Kapitoil

“Want me to wait?”

“No, that is unnecessary. In fact, I have some more work to do.”

“Burning the midnight oil, are we?” she says. “See you around.”

She walks toward the subway and I return to the building. There is probably a better means of negotiating the situation, but it is hard to strategize the right thing to do when you have to act quickly.

I wait inside the building until Rebecca disappears, then knock on the dark front window of car 13. The doors unlock and produce a sound like a bullet firing.

The face of the driver surprises me. “Do you remember me?” I ask.

Barron turns his head a quarter of the way. He still has a mustache. “Sorry, I drive a lot of people.”

“It was on October 3rd,” I say. In some ways it feels longer and in other ways it doesn’t feel that long. “From John F. Kennedy Airport. My name is Karim Issar.”

“I go to JFK all the time. Yankee Stadium, right?”

“Yes.” I don’t say anything for a minute, as I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable that he can’t remember me. Although I am truly the one who should feel uncomfortable, because it means I’m not that memorable, which I already know, e.g., I don’t talk loudly or dress with unique fashion or have an appearance others consider very sexy.

Then Barron depresses the gas pedal harder as we pass a yellow light, and after we safely cross, I say, “Do you remember I asked you how many gallons of gas your car guzzles?”

He is quiet at the next red light for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, yeah — I remember you.” He turns his head all the way back this time. “What’s happening?”

“I am going to the Yankees game.”

“You must be doing pretty well for yourself if I’m driving you to the World Series.”

“I did not pay for the ticket myself,” I say.

His eyes observe me in his mirror. “My bad.”

We drive for several minutes and reach FDR Drive. The picture of Barron’s daughter is still underneath his sun-protector.

“How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“She just turned seven,” he says. “Sorry — six. They grow up quick here.”

Zahira also grew up quickly, but for different reasons. In other ways of course she’s still a child, e.g., she has never had alcohol or a boyfriend, because I will not let that happen to her until she’s truly an adult.

The traffic becomes denser, so I don’t distract Barron anymore by talking. The car reroutes off the highway and onto the streets, and the buildings aren’t like the buildings in Manhattan, which are either modern or historic. These are obsolete and they all look the same, like ugly red rectangles, and although my family’s apartment building in Doha isn’t luxurious, it is superior to the apartments in this section of Manhattan and the Bronx and its architecture is unique from the other buildings. Everyone on the street is black or Latin American. I haven’t seen anyone in my building who is, minus the doormen and one black couple.

We approach Yankee Stadium, which is a massive white building whose shape is a hybrid of a circle and a triangle, and Barron stops and gives me a business card with his number on it and his full name: BARRON WRIGHT. “Call just before the game’s over, and I’ll tell you where to meet me,” he says.

“What are you going to do during the game?” I ask.

“Get some dinner around here, listen to the game in the car. Not worth driving all the way to Queens and back.”

I don’t like the image of Barron eating a discounted dinner and waiting inside the car for the whole game, but I merely say, “Thank you for driving me.” He nods but angles his head out his window at the other cars so he won’t cause a crash.

I pick up my ticket, and when I enter the stadium I see signs up several escalators for the mezzanine where Jefferson and Dan sat and where a large crowd walks, and for a second I want to tell Jefferson to search for me on television in the luxury suite before I remind myself that not everyone is as fortunate as I am to receive this golden opportunity.

The luxury suite is in a room off a hallway. Inside are several men in suits and a few females in dresses and fur coats. I expected other guests, but not so many. The females drink glasses of wine and the men drink bottles of Budweiser beer, and some of them eat off paper plates. A black man in a tuxedo stands behind silver trays of food on a table and serves sushi, and a Latin American man also in a tuxedo pours wine at a wooden bar. A large painting hangs on the wall of a Yankees player wearing number 7 and his signature, although I can’t decipher it and his last name isn’t on his uniform, as none of the Yankees’ are, possibly because they are like the residents of Mr. Schrub’s building and don’t have to call attention to themselves. The strongest programming code does the same thing: It is not always sexy, but it functions efficiently and without flaws.

I don’t see Mr. Schrub, and no one introduces himself to me, so I stand near the door. I’m hungry, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to request food or if it requires previous payment. I take a free game program and read about the teams for ten minutes, and finally I decide I’m a guest of Mr. Schrub’s and should chitchat with the others, so I approach a small cluster of men and say “Excuse me” to the oldest one with white hair and steel glasses, because it is usually appropriate to initially address the senior member of a group.

He turns his head and says, “Oh, thank you,” then hands me his empty Budweiser bottle and paper plate.

I quickly return to the door and trash the bottle and plate and continue looking into the bin as if there is something of interest inside. Possibly he made an error just because my clothing is not high quality and looks like a waiter’s outfit, even though the waiters all wear tuxedoes. But whatever the reason is, suddenly I want to leave.

Then someone says the game is beginning, and everyone exits the room through a glass door into the outdoor area, where there are 20 seats that look like the business seats in an airplane, and I know I have to stay.

It isn’t truly outside, however, since we have a small roof over us and lamps that produce heat. There is even a television here, although I don’t know why someone would watch the game on television when we have the chief seats in the stadium, but some of the people near me utilize it.

No one scores for the first two innings, and the game is more boring than it is on television, because on television the analysts explain the mathematical variations of the game and you have access to numerous statistics, which is the only part of the game I truly enjoy. So occasionally I do look over at the television for the displayed statistics.

Then everyone turns around because Mr. Schrub finally arrives. He’s dressed in his business clothing but he also wears a Yankees hat. He talks with another man approximately his age and they quickly bypass me in the last row and I don’t think he even sees me. Mr. Schrub then shakes the hands of the other men and kisses the females on the cheek before he sits in the front row with two other men.

There’s one voided seat in the front row, but I don’t want to interrupt Mr. Schrub and his friends and it would be boastful of me to believe that I merit a seat next to them. So I remain where I am and try to watch the game, but truly I’m watching Mr. Schrub, who records something on a piece of paper after each batter.

After Atlanta terminates, Mr. Schrub turns around. “Karim!” he says. “What are you doing in the nosebleeds?”

I’m humiliated, and I put my finger under my nose, but it is bloodless. Some of the people around me laugh.

“No, it’s — never mind,” he says, and signals for me to come closer.