Corn

CHRIS DEVORE CORN

Had to be he was lying to himself. He’d sworn off these archetypal moments, these milestones, these benchmarks, these pedestrian emotions. His life’s work had been dodging them – with what he thought of as finesse – in order to live a unique story, a narrative worth repeating. When wham, he’s back in his parents’ house with his wife and four kids. He’s 38. He’s racked up a rigorous schedule over the weekend, which includes an alumni baseball game on Friday, a 20-year-reunion kick-off at A.J.’s on Saturday night, and a family picnic on Sunday at Carl Miller Park. He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the baseball. He’d endure just about anything for this word and its various synonyms – love, regret, hope. Baseball is somehow cousin to just about everything, with the possible exception of clichés and adverbs.

He’s back home in Mountain Home, Idaho, and ever since he left Tacoma, it’s just been a blur. He’s unraveled by how he’s misplaced twenty years of maturity like one misplaces a book, or a word in an intense conversation.

He’s been pointing out landmarks between the rows of corn, his first of many mistakes. He’s been quizzing his kids about his own history – even the baby. He’s been reliving sports moments as the shortstop, qb, and tenth man, non-shooting guard of the Tigers. In a matter of hours, he’s turned his life from a sentimental documentary to an after-school special.

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Now that it’s over, he’s not sure he can un-shuck the corn, or figure out why it was so important that everyone love him. The cape was off, and somehow he’d become the runner, the courier, the herald, the prophet. His message: The time for regret is nigh.

He knocked on the door of his parents’ house, but a narrator was saying it was his triumphant return. His father yelled for them to come in. He realized too late that his wife was still working the children out of their seats. He was sweeping through the kitchen when the irritation hit him that those kids were ringing the doorbell over and over. – Dad, what’s your beer situation? – The situation is: get it yourself.

The implication, conscious or unconscious, was, get two.

He’s greeted by the old hunting dog, Shelby, who’s obviously lost a step. With just a pat on the head, he makes it past into the garage, where the second fridge lives. He has to open the twelve-pack of XX Amber, realizing it was bought for the occasion, but it’s still Dad’s favorite brand, not his. After the first drink, he’s ready for hugs. – Don’t throw that sweetie.

He was still getting used to grandpa voice.

It was Friday, early afternoon. His longish black hair was hanging out the sides of his Tiger’s hat and if he doesn’t hit a baseball or get to Mark Anthony’s for a beer and cigar with the boys soon, everyone will regret it. His wife refers to these moments as his hungry grumpies, a designation nearly universally applied to food, sports, writing, Scrabble, you name it. Anything he has a strong

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appetite for. She says, – Watch out he’s got the hungry grumpies or whispers, – You’ve got’em, settle. Be civ.

Somehow this memory still tastes like green olives filled with garlic and jalapeños.

The smoke he was walking through wasn’t a prop but it felt like it. There were five of them on the couch – bankers, bakers, and butchers with close-cropped beards. They slowly evolved into people he recognized, his old teammates. – Look at this. I never thought I’d be the skinny one. – You’re not, he said – You gonna sit with us and have a beer or do you have some church something to go to? – When’d you guys all get here? – We live here, chubby. – At least the full face makes your ears look normal.

He wished the laughter was also a prop, and that just this once he’d stuck to his New-Year’s resolution. – Slow down guys. We’ve got a game tonight. – We used to be legends. Now you’re just fat.

The field, press box, and concession were so much nicer. During innie-outtie, he just couldn’t seem to reach the balls he thought he should. The half-hearted fungos, which produced as many line-drives as groundballs, weren’t helping.

After a pop-up just past the infield, but still subject to the infield-fly rule, he leaned against the dugout and looked over at his wife corralling the kids. Maybe they

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weren’t paying attention. This was supposed to be — – You were always good to my boy. You used to be a vacuum, Mr. Automatic.

After the game, he played catch with his son and two daughters, while his wife held the baby and conversationally fended for herself. – Baseball’s great, but when do I get to play softball? – Softball’s not it. Softball’s what you do when you can’t play baseball anymore. Softball’s a punishment, a time-out, a spankin’. – You like it. – I love it. – But it’s not baseball. – When I grow up I’m going to move back here and live with Grandma and Grandpa, Dad. – What about me? – You can come with if you want.

A.J.’s Restaurant and Lounge felt like a faithful friend, and by faithful he mostly meant mute. He was just getting used to his new faith, so it was no time to experiment. There was purpose behind everyone’s nervous smile. To the person – teammate, old flame, near stranger – they asked about college baseball and his plans to be a preacher or a missionary, as they eyed the beer in his hand.

Sockeye Dagger Falls IPA, he wanted to tell them.

Why couldn’t they realize it had been twenty years? Quite possibly worse was that any explanation of “what he was up to these days” could take ten minutes and get him off script. There was freelance this, part-time that, editor of these, and board member/volunteer of such

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and-such. He sometimes even used words like coach and MVP and owner, which was unfortunate. But soon it was a game, and he took a drink every time someone asked about his past or his present or his future.

He was up front answering trivia questions. He was singing a Neil Diamond duet not realizing his microphone was off. He was dancing Gangnam Style. It wasn’t so bad. These were maybe the greatest friends he had ever had. He loved them with the intensity of a thousand suns. He wanted to tell his wife, but he wasn’t

sure –

He was back in the middle of what had become a dance floor for the faithful few. – Jesus loves beer! – I was a little off my game, he would tell his wife later.

They had brought taco salad. He was hugging her and hoping his wife had no idea who “her” was. It wasn’t that he had ever loved her. It was just one camping trip, summer after their freshman year at PLU. Her desire and curvy body had somehow convinced him that she personified all his regret, all his adolescent angst, all that would be closed to him if he kept on the current path, which certainly led to marriage and babies in the baby carriage. He hadn’t loved her. He had loved all of them. He wished there were many words for love, not just many definitions.

He looked at his wife. She was shaking her head, indicating what he thought was certain knowledge that he’s an idiot.

On the ride back he was still telling stories the length of two Americanos with extra shots. It was a

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mixture of triumph and regret and caffeine behind the tightly-held wheel. It was lily-white energy. He was on top of the world. He was tearfully confessional. He was creating several dimensions for himself based on successes, cities, and possible sweethearts.

– That’s enough! He wasn’t sure who – if anyone – said it.

His wife, she was the ultimate Hungry Grumpy.

So he was back to corn. They often had corn for dinner. He needed corn to pay the mortgage. He had a corn on his toe. He wanted to be known as stuffed full of corn, but he didn’t want people to look at his life and only see corn.

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