I should have been in ninth period, but Mr. Phillips knew I didn’t care much for math, nor him. I wanted to be with the boys…and Barb. After all, autumn was ending, the leaves were burning and the winter in Albany is white hell. I wanted to enjoy the last of it.

We met here after school all the time in this hazy dust bowl of an abandoned brewery—I call it the rusty tomb. We would usually stay till late. Last year in 61, folks would say it was haunted; they saw lights flickering along its Hudson banks and could hear sharp voices in the night. It was probably us smoking cigarettes that we had stolen from our parents and singing drinking songs we didn’t really understand. We might have felt an exuberance in it all, but there was little meaning to our words. Mainly we were ghosts of ourselves, letting drunkenness envelope our bodies into something less than human.

The afternoon was starting out to be a cold one. I was the first one here, sitting in the old main office overlooking the big brewery machines. They were rusted and crusted in the decay of years unused; big boilers and metal tubing lay scattered across the dusty ground. 

I figured the gang was probably using Benny to buy beer for the night, no wonder they were late. 

I liked getting here early though. It was quiet, and the gang usually didn’t shut up. They were constant noise, and that was whatever because the day went faster, but sometimes I liked to get there early, and peel back the rust of the old machines with my eyes, and envision purposeful young men brewing beer in the capital of a glimmering New York.

I closed my eyes picturing myself as one of them, creating a brew—something I could go out and buy and enjoy. It was like some mechanized art form. 

But then I realized that these men didn’t really control that art. Someone else decided the taste for them. That made me sad, to think of men trapped in somebody else’s dream. I think I understood that to some degree. They were making beer because that’s what they were told to do. Not necessarily because they loved it.

I heard Johnny’s rattling Bel Air skirt up to the lot. The rubber tires rolled over the decade-old-gravel and leather boots and jackets scuffled out of the car. The high-pitched squeaking of my friends’ voices rang out in the hollowed old brewery, and I saw all four of them wander in laughing and holding a case of beer. Barb was there too.

I guess I was always staring at her. I loved what she had, what she could be, but more—how she could be. Without fear of herself, without fear that the concrete of the city would come crumbling, cascading down.

Barb was gorgeous and all the guys in the gang knew it. They were all jealous of Johnny, how he could wrap his arms around her at any time and feel the loose tug of her shirts, smell the spray on her hair, the taut, tight fit of her white-washed jeans. 

I didn’t have any harsh, musky feelings like that. I liked Johnny fine and all, and Barb was great, but I never wanted her like that. I couldn’t really tell you what I wanted.

I mostly noticed the way she looked at him, or how she still mourned Buddy Holly three years later, or how she wanted to live on a ranch in Wyoming and learn how to play chess. I tried not to think about her too long. Sometimes it upset me.

“…and I’m telling you, Eddie, that if Babe Ruth were around today, he’d kick Yogi Berra’s ass! There’s just no doubt about it,” Johnny said coldly as he threw a beer can to the ground.

“And I’m telling you that Berra is way too smart to let some brute like Ruth beat him up. Have you heard some of the things he’s said? The guy is a poet!” Eddie replied with his hands facing the heavens. 

Eddie was a baseball player himself. He played catcher for the high school team. He said he liked the feeling of safety the catcher’s gear gave him. He felt safe in his “nook” behind the batter and in front of the umpire. Benny, Johnny, Barb and I would watch the games—Eddie dropped the ball a lot but no one really called him out on it, besides Johnny.

“Oh heavens, give me the patience—ay, yeah because ‘the future ain’t what it used to be’ is fucking poetry, Eddie, you’re right!” Johnny walked up close to Eddie and gave him a dark scowl. Eddie looked panicked.

“I’m sorry Johnny, I was only joking… take it easy…” Eddie said as he leaned back, away from Johnny.

Johnny leaned in close to Eddie’s face, giving him a face of death. The room fell quiet. “At least Yogi Berra can catch, I’ll give you that, Ed.” Johnny smirked, and the two grabbed new beers.

“Hey guys… hey Barb.” I finally spoke up from the chair I was leaning back on in the office.

Benny came over and gave me a handshake hello, “How are you Percy?” He asked me, looking into my eyes. 

Benny was definitely the nicest of our gang. He always wanted to hear what people had to say. I’ve also known him the longest. He was more of an observer than an actor, he liked to listen to the noise and chime in only when he felt it necessary. A good judge of character, Eddie and Johnny looked to him to solve their arguments.

“But how’s about it, Ben? Berra or Ruth?” Johnny looked over to Benny with a flying smirk, clutching a beer like it was a divine need.

“Well you just gotta go with the Bambino. I mean the guy was a crusher. Sorry, Ed.”

“Ah nuts, what do you know Benny, you don’t even watch sports,” Eddie replied.

Frazzled, Eddie went to grab another beer. He cracked it open, and the sound pierced the late afternoon mugginess. Its echo bounced off the rusted steel walls of the building. He leaned       his head back and took a quick sip. You could see his face squeal as the taste tipped over onto his tongue. The air smelt like rotten barley.

He was new to cutting class and drinking. He didn’t know who else to be with. There was a reason we were the only ones who would watch his games—the same reason he didn’t really catch so well. 

Johnny came over and presented his thick chest right in front of Eddie. 

“Uh, what’s up, Doc?”

“What’s up is drink up, Eddie! Drink up!”

“Johnny, would you relax a little bit?” Barb asked Johnny with some harshness.

“The boy lost the bet, now pay the price! Drink your beer! Drink up!” He smiled, knowing Eddie’s weakness to the cold brew.

Eddie just stood there and stared at all of us, confused by the jeer.

Soon enough we were all chanting “drink up” whether we really knew we wanted to or not. Johnny had this soft will over us, like a king of an ancient clan— like King Lear to some group of Fools.

Eddie tilted back the can out of sheer dumb public pressure and swallowed as much of the golden brew as he could. He filled his tiny little stomach up with the stuff and squeezed the can in anger.

He finished every drop, but he had filled up like a water balloon in the meantime. I’d never seen his face so red or bloated before. I think he was trying to hold his breath—trying to hold himself still so nothing would move.

Ed sighed quietly. He crumpled the can in his hand and stared at me. I felt sorry for him. He was staring blindly down a cliff, hoping not to fall off, and here I was forcing him into stupidity while I watched the dumb cat and mouse game they played. I usually don’t get involved. I had my own way.

His gaze shifted to Johnny who had leaned back up against the wall next to Barb. She looked like she was modeling. She looked like that anywhere, I always thought.

“Drink this, you stupid son of a bitch!” Eddie yelled as he took one sloppy step and hurled the tin can through the thick humid air at Johnny. Unfortunately for Eddie, the can bonked Barb right on the skull.

“Ah dammit!” she yelled

“You’re dead, Ed!” Johnny stamped his loud feet, sprinting at Eddie, whose expression had changed from rage to immediate regret and concern. 

Johnny tackled the catcher as hard as he could, knocking him right out of his loose shoes. I just stood there watching it all. I really couldn’t get my mind off of Barb. 

I sat still as I watched her rub her forehead and then walk over calmly. God I wish I could walk the way she walked…and tap Johnny on the shoulder. He was over Ed, his legs on each side of the short catcher, pinning him to the ground. His fists reared back ready to plunge into the soft cheeks of Eddie’s freckled face.

“Enough, Johnny. Walk me home.” She strutted away towards the rusted doorway. Her footsteps click-clacked like glass on glass, as they strutted over old cans and leaves padding the historic old brewery. Johnny got up and looked down at Eddie. 

“Err… I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” He bent over and pulled Eddie to his feet with one swift tug. “Hey man, stay tough.” He padded Eddie on the shoulder, put his thick hands in his pockets and walked into the waning light of the afternoon. We heard them get into their car and peel off.

Quiet was something I enjoyed, and as far as I knew so did Benny. Eddie usually talked to us about Yogi Berra, but in this instance, he stood there rubbing his chest and staring at the light through the doorway. He looked down, grabbed another beer from the box, put one hand in his blue jeans and walked over towards me and Benny and stared at the foam crisping out of his can.

We all stood there for a minute in a three pointed circle, waiting for someone to talk first. I was preparing some factoid I’d heard in Ms. Bennett’s class; how Albany became the capital of the state. Silence prevailed me, I’m most comfortable when I don’t have to talk.

“Goddamn I’ll say it,” Benny started with his tongue lapping around his lips. “Barb looked pretty nice in those jeans, don’t you think, boys?”

“What do you mean?” I asked him immediately, staring into his eyes. “How did she look?”

“She’s a babe, let’s face it, she’s just a babe… no way Johnny would ever just leave like that, no wonder he got so mad just now,” Eddie said, taking a few sips of beer. 

I wasn’t sure if they knew what that meant — if I knew what that meant, but I definitely thought that she was beautiful. 

“Sure wish I was Johnny,” I lied, and Benny was staring at me intently, analyzing what I said. Silence grew. We didn’t know who we were without that couple, and we all decided to go home.

We left the rusty tomb, and I split up from Eddie and Benny and started walking into the oncoming dusk. 

I looked up at the skyline. Down the river somewhere, there was Yankee Stadium, the biggest thing I had seen.

I don’t really know why I was so drawn to it. My father used to say that years ago he watched Babe Ruth play. He said it was the best day of his life. He had snuck into the stadium with some friends, and watched the great Bambino play.

My father used to say it wasn’t how the man hit the ball, but the way you knew that he knew he was going to hit the ball. There was no question about it. The confidence, the iron know-how. The confidence.

I had never played baseball. The only athlete I really knew was Eddie, and I certainly wouldn’t describe him as an athlete. I watch it on TV sometimes, but Mom didn’t much care for it, and it’s not fun to watch alone. I was a Yankees fan by name and state only. I was trying to find something to be passionate about, but drinking beer with Johnny and the guys was the closest thing. Maybe there would be some purpose with them, maybe I’d find something for myself.

 **

I woke the next morning, a Saturday, to Johnny throwing stones at my window. The grass was faded, the day was cold, and Johnny was there with Barb, in his thick leather jacket and tight jeans. I swear he’d want to be buried in that outfit. His hair slicked back, a cigarette lightly puffing smoke from his mouth. 

“Hey little man,” I heard him chiming through the thin glass of my window, “let’s get going on the day, huh? Its eleven and we got things to do!” 

I walked over to the window and gave him a thumbs up. “Sure—things to do in Albany,” I muttered.

We drove to pick up Eddie and Benny, all of us packed into Johnny’s Bel Air. Johnny then drove us towards the brewery. 

As Eddie was droning on about his baseball game tomorrow, I was looking at the back of Barb’s head, how her hair splashed down the back of her black shirt. I observed her earrings as her eyes stared adoringly at Johnny. Man, how could I not.

Benny hit me in the arm and gave me a look. He shook his head. “Hey man, you alright?”

“What’s the matter back there?” Johnny chimed in, taking another cigarette out of his mouth, and balancing it on his bottom lip. I watched Barb mouth the name “James Dean” while staring at Johnny’s lips.

“Nothing…I’m just daydreaming, thinking about something better than Albany, I guess.”

Benny seemed to know something about me and Barb. He definitely was interested in the interactions between me and her. I always caught his eyes watching me, but I think it was out of care. I’m not sure. I only knew I’d never bring it up to him.

“What could be better than our capital city, huh?” Johnny said back to us with a grin. He reached out his arm to grab Barb on the thigh. He revved his 57 Bel Air down the cracked Albany road. The hot fumes of burnt motor oil scorched our nostrils.

As we parked the car and started to walk inside, I saw Johnny whisper something to Benny. Benny nodded his head.

“Damn, we forgot the beer!” Benny exclaimed, “Barb, you want to come with me to go get it?”

“Oh, sure,” she replied. Johnny stood still, shrugged his shoulders and tossed the keys to Barb. He continued to walk into the old brewery.

“Come on, gang, let’s get to it,” Johnny said. Eddie and I followed him inside. The sun was out, not a cloud in the sky, it was a warm 40 degrees, and we took refuge in the abandoned place. Johnny seemed to have something on his mind, some kind of aggression about him today, a primal urge that was beating in his heart. “So listen, I have something on my mind today. Eddie!”

The catcher audibly gulped.

“I owe you an apology.”

Eddie straightened his neck out and crossed his arms, leaning his waist to one side and began to tap his foot. “Well let’s hear it, John…” he said with a sudden confidence on his face. Johnny closed his eyes, he was still and pale.

“I’m sorry I flipped my shit, man,” Johnny spoke, confidently looking away and taking a long drag from his cigarette, “we cool?”

“Yeah, Johnny, we are cool…I,” he stuttered, looking into Johnny’s thick hair, looking for something he hoped was there “…I didn’t think much of it anyway.” He looked away into the dust of the tomb. 

The silence was intrusive and repugnant, I made the conscious decision to crack a beer open and gulp it down. About twenty minutes later Barb and Benny came back in. The gang began to chatter and the brewery filled up with noise.

I kept looking at her. She always stared at Johnny, the way his cold rugged hands always balled up into fists, the way his hair was thick and wavy, the way he would hold a cigarette like it was his last. He represented more to her; he was the image of mankind, rough, rambling, and rumbling.

It stayed quiet for a moment, until we heard some footsteps and voices beckoning into the brewery. This was weird. It was noonish on a Saturday. We usually had this big tin can to ourselves. Everyone’s heads were tilted towards the entrance with confusion, where light was pouring in.

“Who the hell is coming in here at this hour?” Johnny asked, addressing the quiet of the room. He threw his cigarette to the floor and stamped it out, fending off the smell of nicotine with the gruff of his boot. He clenched his fist and grabbed at a lump in his back pocket. 

“Johnny, relax its probably just some other kids,” Barb said, trying to calm him, but her question only gave rise to his animosity. His motor was running hot.

I wasn’t surprised. Johnny is a man quick to anger, quick to be defensive. Nine or ten guys in varsity jackets walked in. They smelled like booze, cigarettes, and sweat. They were all pretty tall, all in pretty good shape.

“Oh howdy, guys,” Eddie called out in surprise. The group of boys looked at him and stopped in their tracks.

“No way! It’s Unsteady-Eddie, the kid who can’t catch a ball,” one of them called out with a vicious drunken grin on his lips.

“Hey man, what the hell?” Eddie replied in hurtful anger, yet continued to introduce the group. “Anyways, hey gang this is my baseball team… I didn’t know you guys were hanging out today?” They ushered back some snickers and the kicking of dust.

Johnny stepped forward, slicking his hair back with one hand while sipping a beer with the other. He stepped into the center of the room. “Hey fellas, welcome to the brewery. Maybe you can come back when we aren’t here using it…” he gazed at the group, his eyebrows curled up. The only sound was some sniffling and the tapping of Johnny’s boot on the dusty floor of the tomb. 

“Yeah, and maybe you could leave so we could use your gal, since you ain’t usin’ her,” one of them shot back. Barb blushed and looked down nervously. She grabbed Benny’s arm. Johnny’s clenched fist pulped bright white, and his teeth were grinding like a gristmill. 

Sunlight streamed into the place though rotted metal and broken roofing. Benny was trying to hide in the corner of the room, with Barb behind him, attempting with sweat and shivers to become invisible. Eddie and them were staring at Johnny as he strutted to the center of the room, tapping his foot to the beat of his own song. I stared up at the light, trying to see the sun.

“Hey, he didn’t mean that, there John.” One of the players spoke to break the silence. “That crossed the line. Alright, alright… no trouble today, John. Look, we don’t want no trouble, we just wanted to get drunk on a Saturday.”

“Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” Johnny growled back.

“You think that stopped the greats? Look at Babe Ruth!?” Eddie stood up in the back and walked towards Johnny, staring at him in disbelief.”

“Shut up, Ed,” said one of the players.

“Hey you shut up,” Johnny said gravely, taking another strutting step towards the group. “And you too, Ed.” The players, in a quiet snicker, turned and left.

“We will see you soon, Johnny-boy,” they hollered as they shuffled out.

“Don’t call me boy,” Johnny yelled with breathless haste, his face red, his fists bound in cold sweat and muscle, laced with the veins of an angry, angry man.

We stayed there for a few hours, drinking quietly. I moved over towards Barb and Benny and enjoyed their silent company, partly to get away from the stench of nicotine and sweat. The cold, pale Johnny chain-smoked for about an hour and a half, pacing the rusty tomb—his rusty courtyard. I didn’t know if he was a madman or a gentleman. 

Eddie by his side, his dependent fool. The short little catcher stayed close to his friend, staring at him with wonder.

“Barb,” I said, staring at her neck. “Why do you want to go to Wyoming?”

“What?”  She broke her stare away from Johnny’s pacing.

“I said, why do you want to live in Wyoming?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, Percy, I just kind of said it to you…why do you bring it up?”

“Well, I just like Wyoming is all, I thought we had that in common,” I said, trying to repurpose my reason for speaking.

“Oh it’s fine and all, I just don’t think it’s the place for me,” Barb said looking down at her feet.

“Why not, it’s the first place women could vote, don’t ya know,” Benny chimed in looking at me.

“Well that doesn’t mean much for me anyhow, I’m not much of a politician,” Barb replied.

Eagerly trying to make her smile, I wasn’t giving up that easy. “Hey you know Barb, I’m sure there’s something for everyone out there, you could be any kind of cowgirl or cowboy you want, I hear it’s gorgeous, you don’t have to be stuck in this place.”

“I certainly don’t wanna be stuck here where it’s so slow, and dismal, but I certainly don’t mind the cold. Gives me a reason to warm up,” she said, reaching for a half empty beer on the ground.

I watched her gulp it down. I put my hand to my neck and she finished the can. Silence took over, and there was Eddie, still sipping a beer staring at Johnny, who had slowed down. His cigarette was burned out and he threw this last one out the window. The cold of the day started to overcome the sunlight. We heard the wind push the leaves outside with violence.

Johnny was angry. He was stone cold-silent, his face white with heat. He never could control his body. He looked restless, in need of a nice sleep. “I’m out of here,” he said, throwing a beer can down and reaching for something in his back pocket. “Eddie, where are your teammates going?”

“Oh jeez, I guess…um, probably to the old field past Church Street. I’ll come too.”

“No. You’ll stay here, kid.” Johnny left through the door of the brewery, walking with  pulsating anger. 

Barb, Benny, and I stared as he left; Eddie just looked out the shattered window. Barb stood up and started to knit her fingers together, spindling them together, she was nervous for some reason, her black outfit catching some of the draft from outside.

***

I was amazed at how pristine they made his body look. You couldn’t see the puncture wounds or the bruises. The mortician did a hell of a job. It was like we were still in the old brewery, just waiting for the sun to come out. His parents looked understanding of the son that laid empty before them, friendly with the defiant lifelessness that clung to his body.

Barb wasn’t as calm. She was pining for a breath, pining for some movement, some falsity that lay beneath his oversized suit, and his shiny box. She clung to me. The boys were there too; Eddie had been following Benny around almost everywhere the last two weeks, and the kid was a lot quieter. Barb made up for his noise with her weeping in the funeral parlor. Winter howled outside.

Barb kept tugging at my sleeve, as we looked at his body for the last time. The pastor’s preaching fell hollow on cluttered ears, as the vinyl scraping of jackets on wooden chairs took the place of silence in the funeral home.

“Johnny was never religious. He stood up for himself and his friends. He liked fast cars, knife collections, and his girlfriend Barb. This great city of Albany has another fallen son, but he will be remembered by his loved ones, and by God Almighty, who might take him under his wing in heaven above. His life was full of vigor, baseball, and friends, may he rest now in heavenly peace.” 

The pastor, or stranger in long white robes, finished his eulogy. I’m still unsure if I ever felt the weight of the words.

We walked outside, and I was holding Barb up by her waist and elbows. She crouched and made herself heavy and fell to the ground. It was freezing and the stone ground felt like a glacier. But Barb sat there, staring at me.

“Why did he have to go, Percy, why him?”

I looked down at her for a minute, and then lowered myself next to her. People had left the home and started walking towards their cars. I was a pallbearer but I figured they’d wait for me.

“You know how my dad used to tell me Babe Ruth stories?” I asked.

“What are you saying right now?” She was angry at me. She had always caught me staring. She didn’t want to hear some baseball story.

I looked down at the frozen ground in front of me, putting some room between me and her. “I never told you that my father was there for Babe Ruth’s last day at Yankee Stadium… In front of millions, he said thank you, like they’d done him a favor. He loved the crowds—what he meant to them…but we always forget the reality behind Babe Ruth. That he’s dead. He’s gone. We talk about him like he’s still hitting home runs. The guy was a womanizing drunkard with a nice swing. We trusted the tameness of a wolf.”

“Do you want me to forget about Johnny, at his funeral? What’s wrong with you, Percy.”

“No, no that’s not what I mean. I guess I’m saying, for all that Johnny was and is… and… how he was, and…and…for what I can’t be…he was just a person. That we loved.”

“I loved him.” She said, staring back at the doors to the funeral home.

“My dad always told me about Babe Ruth, how he was a womanizer, a lady killer. But he was a tough guy and a great ball player—”

“Why are you still talking about Babe Ruth right now?”

“Because I’m trying to say that people are important to us because of how they changed our lives! The way they’ve made us think about ourselves. What we can and can’t be…Johnny meant something to us that we didn’t—I didn’t understand.”

“He loved us! He was protecting Eddie,” she said with red swollen anger.

“No one asked him to!” I yelled back at her as tears streamed down her face.

She looked into my eyes for the first time that I could remember. “What do you want, Percy?”

“I don’t want what everyone thinks I want…whatever Johnny was.”

“You’re nothing like Johnny! You would never have done what he did!” She punched me on the shoulder.

“I’m not trying to be Johnny. I’m not trying to go gallivanting, and knife fighting, and car racing…or to get the girl,” I stared at her, distant as I’d ever been. “I’m trying to be something else,” I said and I stood up, turning my back to her. Looking into the dark doorway of the parlor.

“What’s that supposed to mean to me!?”

“I’m not really sure I even know, or that you would understand…” I let my words hang on the cold wind. Her cheeks were rose red. My palms were sweaty and cold. “You know Babe Ruth’s real name was George? He died of throat cancer. All those fans—all those lovely baseball fans couldn’t cheer him away from that. We all end up the same; whether we go kicking and screaming, or choking and coughing…or just quiet-like…Maybe I should move to Wyoming.”

I walked away, hearing her sob in confusion behind me. I walked over to the coffin.

It was lighter than I thought it would be.