Eddie brushes his teeth with the bathroom door open, watching the television in the living room. “Sixth inning,” Vince Scully says. “Full count, nobody out.”
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Walking home around 4PM last fall, I spotted a can in the middle of the sidewalk. Strikingly silver and apparently full, since it wasn’t blown over. No logo, no nutrition facts, no label, only the reflected sun and these words, in shaky black Sharpie: CUM CAN, PLZ DRINK.
It’s easier and faster to cross into Mexico on foot. Park on the U.S. side, tuck a passport into a pocket, and walk about a mile down a dusty road, toward the Nogales border. Walking into Mexico has always been uncomplicated and relatively effortless for me.
An hour before our dinner with my principal, Mr. Blorenge, I was in a froth, shouting from the bathroom at Donatella. I’d been recommended, against my will, for a promotion.
All of them had personalities that announced themselves when they entered a room, that took up an enormous quantity of space, that made everyone want to straighten their unwilling spines. This would prove to be a problem.
